2      !! 


HUEfeY-GBAPHS-: 


OR, 


SKETCHES  OF  SCENERY,  CELEBRITIES  AND  SOCIETY, 


TAKEN  FROM  LIFE. 


BY  N,   PARKER  WILLIS, 


STICK    A    PIN    THERE/ 


NEW  YORK  : 

C  H  A  R  L  E  S    S  C  R  I  B  N  E  R  . 
1851. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  j-ear  1851,  by 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern  District 
ot  New  York. 


C.  W.   BENEDICT,^     ,>rr.  .       . 
Stereotype!   &nd  <  Pt  inte'f,   r"  * 
•201  William'  St.,  N.  Y.' 


TO 

MORRIS, 

• 

MY     FRIEND     AND     PARTNER, 
THIS  VOLUME 

IS     INSCRIBED 


PREFACE, 

THE  following  papers,  though  never  before  published  in  a 
volume,  have  appeared  in  the  Journal,  of  which  the  author  is 
Editor.  They  were  "  editorials" — "  articles"  written,  that  is  to 
say,  at  one  sitting,  and  printed  from  ink  scarce  dry.  This  will 
justify  the  name  under  which  they  appear — Awr^-graphs — for 
the  invention  of  which  much  wanted  word,  the  author  begs  pardon 
till  it  comes  into  general  use. 

One  other  apologetic  difference  between  this  and  books  written 
at  leisure  : — the  subjects  have  been  chosen  from  nearness  at 
hand,  or  from  their  occupancy  of  public  attention  at  the  moment, 
or  from  being  apt  to  the  interest  or  conversation  of  the  passing 
hour.  Some  allowance  should  be  made,  perhaps,  for  the 
journalist  who  thus  takes  topics  as  they  come,  and  writes  without 
the  advantage  of  prepared  taste  or  previous  attention. 

One  extraneous  value  may  attach  to  these  sketches.  They  are 
copies  from  the  kaleidoscope  of  the  hour.  They  are  one  man's 
imprint  from  parts  of  the  world's  doings  at  one  place  and  time. 
New  York,  and  what  interested  it  in  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth 


PREFACE. 


century,  will  be  a  chapter  for  History  to  which  this  volume  will 
contribute.  The  author,  long  ago,  made  up  his  mind  that  the 
unreal  world  was  overworked— that  the  Past  and  Future  were 
overvalued— and  that  the  Immediate  and  Present,  and  what  one 
saw  occurring,  and  could  truthfully  describe,  were  as  well  worth 
the  care  and  pains  of  authorship  as  what  one  could  only  imagine 
or  take  from  hearsay.  He  has  written,  therefore,  upon  topics  as 
the  Hour  presented  them;  and  though  his  impressions  and 
opinions  might  have  been  modified  by  keeping  and  re-considering, 
they  have  the  value,  as  he  hopes  they  will  be  allowed  the  apology, 
of  hurry-graphs  from  life  as  it  went  by. 
NEW  YORK,  March,  1851. 


CONTENTS. 

LETTER  FROM  PLYMOUTH. 


PAGE 


Politic  Principle  of  Progress— Daniel  Webster  at  table— Reason  for 
Midsummer  Dinner  at  Plymouth— Description  of  Guests— Peculiarity 
of  "  Influential  Bostonians"— Their  Contempt  for  Two  Extremes- 
Complimentary  Speech  to  a  certain  Charming  Person— Octogenarian's 
Gallantry— Mr.  Webster's  "  Hay-fever"— Picture  of  the  Table— Judge 
Warren— Webster's  Speech  on  the  Removal  of  the  Cloth,  its  Topics 
and  Manner— Change  of  Tone  and  Feeling  in  the  Parting  Address- 
Sketch  of  Mr.  Webster's  Countenance  as  left  by  Illness— Speeches  by 
Everett,  Winthrop,  Wayland  and  Others— Drive  to  Mr.  Webster's 
house  at  Marshfield— Its  Good  Example  in  one  Point— Propriety  of 
Rural  Retirement  to  distinguished  Old  Age— Look  of  Plymouth— The 
Warren  Homestead— Spirited  Letter  of  John  Adams— Letters  of 
Chippeway  Chief  and  of  King  Philip.  .  *  .  .  .  H 

LETTER  FROM  NEW  BEDFORD. 

Effect  of  Steamer  Starting  from  the  Wharf— Piece  of  a  Town  afloat 

The  Phenixed  Boat— Cost  of  Empire  State— Vocation  of  Captain- 
Spectacle  of  Supper  in  a  Cabin  Two  Hundred  and  Fifty  Feet  Long- 
Effect  on  Manners — Sumptuous  Entertainment  for  Fifty  Cents— Ex 
cuse  for  Statistics— New  Bedford  and  its  Wealth— Climate  and  Indus 
try—Geographic  Peculiarities—"  Placer"  for  Beauty— The  Acushnet 
—Old  Fashioned  Prejudices  and  Modern  Luxury— Statesmanlike 
Remedy  for  Decline  of  Local  Trade  and  Industry— Proposed  Visit  to 
the  Raised  Leg  of  New  England,  etc.,  etc.  24 


vi  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

LETTER  FROM  CAPE  COD. 

System  and  Monotony— Booted  Leg  of  Massachusetts— First  Step  below 
the  Garter— Yarmouth  and  its  Vertebral  Street— Sentiment  on  Cape 
Cod — Stage-driver's  Plenipotentiary  Vocation — Delicate  Messages  de 
livered  in  Public— More  taste  for  Business  than  Rural  Seclusion — 
Sameness  and  Plainness  of  Building— Republican  Equality — 'Cute  Lad 
— Yanno  the  Handsome  Chief— Cape  Cod  Poetess— Comparative 
Growth  of  Trees  and  Captains — Boxed  Gardens— Misfortune  of  too 
Good  Company — Centenarian  Servant  known  as  "The  Old  Gentle 
man" — Man  One  Hundred  and  Nine  Years  Old,  who  had  never  been 
out  of  Temper,  etc.,  etc.  .  .  .32 

LETTER  FROM  CAPE  COD. 

Down  the  Ankle  of  Cape  Cod  to  Heel  and  Instep — Amputated  Limb  of 
a  Town— Look  of  Thrift— Contentment  on  Barren  Sand— Primitive 
part  of  the  Cape,  unreached  by  Steam  and  Rails — Ladies'  Polkas — 
Statistics  of  Mackerel  Fishery — Three  Prominent  Features  of  the 
Cape,  Grave  Yards,  School  Houses  and  One  other — Praiseworthy 
Simplicity  of  Public  Taste— Partial  Defence  of  "  Dandies"— The 
"  Blue  Fish" — Class  of  Beauty  on  the  Cape — Comparative  Vegeta 
tion  and  Humanity,  etc.,  etc.  .....  40 

LETTER  FROM  CAPE  COD. 

Lagging  Pen — Sketch  of  Cape  Cod  Landladies — Relative  Consequence 
of  Landlords — Luxury  peculiar  to  Public  Houses  in  this  Part  of  the 
Country— Old  friend  of  "  Morris  and  Willis"— Strap  of  the  Cape  Spur 
— Land  like  "  the  Downs  of  England — Sea-farming  and  Land-farming 
— Solitary  Inn — Double  Sleep — Hollow  of  Everett's  Cape  "  Arm" — 
Pear  tree  over  two  hundred  years  old — Native  Accent  and  Emphasis 
— Overworked  Women — Contrivance  to  Keep  the  Soil  from  blowing 
away— Bridge  of  Winds— Adaptability  of  Apple-trees— Features  of 
this  Line  of  Towns— Curious  Attachment  to  Native  Soil— The  Venice 
of  New  England,  etc.,  etc.  '.  .  .  51 


CONTENTS. 


vii 


PAGE 

LETTER  FROM  THE  END  OF  CAPE  COD. 
Descriptive  of  the  last  few  Miles  of  Cape  Cod,  and  the  Town  at  its  Ex 
tremity.     .  ,  .'."/..  58 

LETTER  FROM  CAPE  COD. 

Noteworthy  peculiarity  of  Cape  Cod— Effects  of  Sand  on  the  Female 
Figure— Palm  of  the  "Protecting  Arm"— Pokerish  Ride  through 
Foliage — Atlanticity  of  unfenced  Wilderness — Webster's  Walk  and 
Study  of  Music— Outside  Man  in  Lat.  41°— Athletic  Fishing— Good 
Eating  at  Gifford's  Hotel— American  "  Turbot"— Wagon  Passage  over 
the  Bottom  of  the  Harbor— Why  there  are  no  Secrets  in  Province- 
town— Physiognomy  of  the  People— Steamer  to  Boston,  etc.,  etc,  65 

LETTER  FROM  WALTON. 

Freedom  from  Work — Excursion  on  the  new  Scenery  opened  by  the 
Erie  Railroad— Walton,  on  the  West  Branch  of  the  Delaware— Plank 
Road— Sugar  Maples— Stumps  out— Spots  to  Live  in— Cheapness  of 

— Life  here.  .  .  .  .  .*,      *v  „  72 

LETTER  FROM  THE  DELAWARE. 

Furnishing  of  Carpet  Bag— Whip-poor- will's  Reminder— Difference  of 
Fatigue  in  Walking  and  Riding  on  Horseback— Coquetting  of  Cadosia 
and  Maiden  Usefulness — Oldest  Delaware  Hunter— Ride  of  Twelve 
Miles  through  the  untrodden  Wilderness— Dinner  in  the  Forest— A 
Hundred  Trout  Caught  on  a  single  Ride— Desireableness  of  Walton  as 
a  Summer  Residence — Promise  of  Description  of  Scenery  on  the  Erie 
Railroad.  .  .  .  ^  .  ,  '  77 

LETTER  FROM  THE  FORK  OF  THE  DELA WARES.  .      82 

LETTER  FROM  THE  EAST  BRANCH  OF  THE  DELAWARE. 

Hundred  Miles  betweeen  Dinner  and  Tea— Broadway  lined  with 
Funerals— Daily  Losses  of  Sunrise — Falls  of  the  Sawkill— Delaware 
Ferryman — Milford  and  its  Character— Search  for  the  Falls— Under 
ground  Organ— River  on  End — Likeness  of  General  Cass  in  the  Rock 
— Bare-toed  Hostess,  etc.  .  .  .  -,•  „•  ,  ."^  87 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

LETTER  FROM  MONTROSE. 

Port  Jervis—  Takes  Two  or  Three  Yankees  to  Start  a  New  Town- 
Punctual  Anaconda—  Difference  between  Railroads  in  America  and  in 
England—  Fall  from  a  Mountain-top—  Summit  Level  and  the  Storucco 
_  Road  in  the  Air,  Passing  over  a  Village  —  Great  Bend—  Cold  Ride  to 
Montrose—  Edith  May's  Ownership  of  Silver  Lake—  Her  "  Bays"  and 
Bay  Horses—  Rose's  Villa  in  Ruins—  Pic-nic  Dinner  in  the  Summer- 
house  __  Negro  Precedence  —  Complimentary  Kindness  of  my  Landlord 
_  Celibacy  of  the  Susquehannah's  "Intended."  etc.  .  94 

LETTER  FROM  LAKE  MAHOPAC. 

Right  of  Genius  and  Scenery  to  Visits  of  Admiring  Recognition—  Foun 
tain-head  of  the  Croton  and  Lake  Mahopac—  Harlem  Railway  to  Cro- 
ton  Falls—  Two  Instances  of  High-bred  Politeness—  Yacht  Fanny- 
Lodging  under  the  Eaves  —  Drive  to  Mountain  and  View—  Lakes  of 
Different  Levels—  Resources  for  Future  Watering  of  New  York- 
Girls  Boating—  Visit  to  Beautiful  Island  in  the  Mahopac  —  No  Horses 
to  get  to  Peekskill—  Possible  Redolence  of  Style,  etc.,  etc.  .  101 

LETTER  FROM  ERIE  RAILROAD. 

A  Thirty-Six  Hours'  Trip—  Night's  Sleep  in  the  Cars—  Waking  up 
first  at  the  End  of  Two  Hundred  Miles—  Wonders  of  Locomotion  — 
Country  Tavern  at  Sunrise—  Promiscuous  Bed-room  —  Dressing  in 
in  the  Entry—  Scenery  in  framed  Panels—  Drive  between  Susque- 
hannah  and  Arched  Viaduct—  Entrance  to  the  Storucco,  and  what  it  is 
like—  Rainbow  Bridge  from  Cloud  to  Cloud—  Chasm  of  Rent-open 
Mountain—  Cascade  off  Duty—  Drive  to  Great  Bend—  Much  Seen  in 
little  Time,  etc.,  etc.  •  I0? 

LETTER  FROM  COZZENS'S  HOTEL. 

Name  of  the  Place  whence  the  Letter  is  dated—  Cozzens's  new  Hotel— 
Cloven-Rock  Road—  Waterfall  Ladder—  Fanny  Butler's  Bath- 
Weir's  Chapel—  General  and  Mrs.  Scott—  River-God's  Hair—  Theory 
of  June  and  August—  Charade  by  a  Distinguished  Hand,  .  112 

LETTER  FROM  GREENWOOD  LAKE,    .   ,  .     ;    120 
LETTER  FROM  RAMAPO,    .  .   .    :  .     i  '    •    124 


CONTENTS.  jx 

PAGE 

LETTER  FROM  WESTCHESTER. 

Visit  to  Westchester— Speed  of  Harlem  Train — Lots   (of  Dust)   For 
Sale— Monotony  of  Elegance — Poverty  necessary  to  Landscape — 
Reed's  Villa  at  Throg's  Neck— Bronx  River  Shut  in  from  Publicity 
and  Fame — Missing  Train  and  Stage — Surly  Toll-Keeper — Politeness 
of   "  Mine  Host" — Suburban    Manners  of  New  York — High-bred 
Horse  and  Low-bred  Owner — Contagion  of  Rowdyism,  etc.,  etc.     .      129 
LETTER  FROM  THE  HUDSON,          .  „         ^  .          134 

LETTER  FROM  HIGHLAND  TERRACE,  .       *  _-/          139 

LETTER  FROM  HUDSON  HIGHLANDS,         .  .  v       .        145 

LETTER  FROM  THE  HIGHLANDS,  ...  150 

LETTER  FROM  THE  HIGHLANDS,  .  .  .155 

OLD  WHITEY  AND  GENERAL  TAYLOR,         .  .        .         160 

THE  LATE  PRESIDENT,  .  .       r ...  .  .          164 

EDWARD  EVERETT,  ..«;..     166 

EMERSON,  .......  169 

CALHOUN  AND  BENTON,  .  .  .  .        179 

MRS.  FANNY  KEMBLE  BUTLER,  .  .  .     ,       .182 

DANIEL  WEBSTER,  UNDER  THE  SPELL  OF  JENNY  LIND'S 

MUSIC, '*     *  .  .     '       .        189 

SIR  HENRY  BULWER,  .  .  ..  «!"•          .  194 

SAMUEL  LOVER,  .  .  .  .        '    '*'         .  196 

MRS.  ANNA  BISHOP,        .  .  .  •  ;  .        200 

FIELDS,  "  THE  AMERICAN  MOXON,"      .       *  .  .         .    204 

GRACE  GREENWOOD,  .  ^.        .^"       '.  .  *          ^07 

FENNIMORE  COOPER,        .        '    .    *       .  .  .  .210 

SCHROEDER  AND  FAY,  .    ,       .         r  .          f.  .          213 

THE  NEW  PRIMA-DONNA,  STEFFANONI,        .  .  '         .    218 

FREDERIKA  BREMER,  .  W          J"         /'      i    223 

LIEUT.  WISE,  AUTHOR  OF  "  LOS  GRINGOS,"  .  .      224 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

MADEMOISELLE  ALBONI,     .  .  ;  .  •    228 

SIR  WILLIAM  DON,        "  .  •         .  .  .  .  230 

PARODFS  LUCREZIA  BORGIA,        ...  4   ."       .    234 

TRUFFI,  .  .       t    'M 239 

EDGAR  POE,        :       -I .240 

MR.  WHIPPLE,       V  ,     -  .:  . 251 

GEORGE  P.  MORRIS,  THE  SONG  WRITER,        .  ,.253 

IRVING, 256 

JENNY  LIND,     .  .  .  ;  .  .  .      257 

FASHION  AND  INTELLECT  IN  NEW  YORK,        ,  .  263 

WANT  OF  MARRIED  BELLES, 268 

MARRIED  LADIES  AND  THEIR  DAUGHTERS,  .  .    272 

USAGES  OF  SOCIETY, 276 

SOCIETY  AND  MANNERS  IN  NEW  YORK,          .  283 

MANNERS  AT  WATERING-PLACES,  .  .  .290 

OPERA  MANNERS, 297 

WEDDING  ETIQUETTES, 304 

SOCIETY  NEWS, 3J1 

USAGES,  ETIQUETTE,  ETC.,  .        r  .    ,       .  .        .321 

"       .  .  >l*       ±  .  325 

SOCIETY,  THIS  WINTER,         •-.  .          •."  .-,         .        329 

SHAWL  ARISTOCRACY, 332 

SUGGESTION  FOR  THE  OPERA,        .  .  .336 

COMING  OPERA  SEASON, 340 

MAY-DAY  IN  NEW  YORK,    .  .  '. "         ,  .  344 

ARE  OPERAS  MORAL,  AND  ARE  PRIMA  DONNAS  LADIES?  351 
EVENING  ACCESS  TO   NEW  YORK    INFORMATION  AND 
AMUSEMENT,  .  356 


SCENERY. 


LETTER  FROM  PLYMOUTH, 

Politic  Principle  of  Progress— Daniel  Webster  at  Table — Reason  for 
Midsummer  Dinner  at  Plymouth — Description  of  Guests — Peculiarity  of 
"  Influential  Bostonians" — Their  Contempt  for  Two  Extremes — Compli 
mentary  Speech  to  a  certain  Charming  Person — Octogenarian's  Gallantry 
— Mr.  Webster's  "  Hay-fever"— Picture  of  the  Table— Judge  Warren — 
Webster's  Speech  on  the  Removal  of  the  Cloth,  its  Topics  and  Manner — 
Change  of  Tone  and  Feeling  in  the  Parting  Address— Sketch  of  Mr. 
Webster's  Countenance  as  Left  by  Illness — Speeches  by  Everett,  Winthrop, 
Wayland  and  Others — Drive  to  Mr.  Webster's  House  at  Marshfield — Its 
Good  Example  in  One  Point — Propriety  of  Rural  Retirement  to  Distin 
guished  Old  Age — Look  of  Plymouth — The  Warren  Homestead — Spirited 
Letter  of  John  Adams— Letters  of  Chippeway  Chief  and  of  King  Philip. 

THERE  is  an  old  cautionary  proverb,  dear  Morris,  which  exhorts 
an  invariable  "  beginning  at  the  small  end  of  the  horn."  In 
matters  liable,  to  interruption,  however,  I  have  oftenest  inclined 
to  seize  first  upon  the  main  advantage,  leaving  disappointment  to 
taper  off  small  with  the  other  probabilities.  I  have  made  two 
visits  to  Plymouth — one  of  several  days,  in  which  I  enjoyed  its 
usual  sights  and  pleasures  ;  and  another  of  a  few  hours,  in  which 


12 


WEBSTER. 


I  sat  down  at  the  Dinner  of  Pilgrim  Embarcation,  and  saw.  and 
heard  Webster.  The  letter  of  Procrustean  verge,  to  which  I  am 
limited,  may  fail  to  use  all  the  material  for  description  which  I 
have  thus  laid  up.  I  will  begin  with  the  latter  topic,  therefore, 
and  take  my  chance  of  arriving  at  the  previous  visit — in  failure 
of  which  you  will  have  the  easy  consolation  that  the  points  it 
would  touch  upon  are  treated,  more  or  less  satisfactorily,  in  the 
guide-books. 

I  had  never  chanced  to  sit  at  table  with  Mr.  Webster,  and  I 
was  very  glad  of  this  opportunity  to  see  him,  for  once,  "  with  his 
armor  off."  You  will  understand,  of  course,  that  the  annual  and 
formal  "  Pilgrim  Dinner"  takes  place  in  December  and  celebrates 
the  Landing,  and  that  this  was  a  more  informal  gathering, 
avowedly  to  celebrate  the  Embarcation.  The  real  object,  proba 
bly,  was  to  meet  Mr.  Webster  over  the  pilgrim  theme — his 
Congressional  duties  preventing  him  from  attendance  here  in  the 
winter.  Mr.  Winthrop's  presence  was  secured  by  the  same 
arrangement,  and  that  of  other  eminent  New  Englanders  in 
Congress.  Easier  access  to  the  place  in  summer,  and  the  chance 
of  finding  agreeable  guests  among  the  distinguished  strangers  from 
the  South  in  the  travelling  season,  were  additional  reasons  for 
establishing  a  biennial  dinner  ;  and  indeed  this  celebration  seems 
likely  to  become  the  more  important  of  the  two. 

There  were  a  hundred  present,  principally  "  influential 
Bostonians."  You  know  Boston  well  enough  to  understand  how 
this  would  differ  from  a  company  of  influential  New-Yorkers. 
They  were  mostly  rich  men,  but  they  were  "  smart  men"  also — 
not  a  rich  fool,  nor  a  mere  literary  man  among  them.  For  cither 
disproportion  of  brains  to  the  pocket,  they  have  very  little  respect 
in  Boston.  A  more  keen,  sagacious  set  of  physiognomies  were 


LOOKS    OF    BOSTONIANS.  13 


never  collected  about  a  table ;  and  it  was  impossible  not  to 
recognize,  even  in  their  looks,  the  cool  inevitableness  and  breadth-y 
calculation  which  make  a  Boston  enterprise  both  more  liberal 
and  certain  than  one  from  any  other  capital  in  our  country. 
Among  the  invited  guests  were  Mr.  Mercer,  the  wealthy  planter 
from  Louisiana,  Gov.  Woodbury  of  New  Hampshire,  President 
Wayland  of  Brown  University,  Edward  Everett,  and  Mr.  Mildmay, 
a  grandson  of  Lord  Ashburton.  I  shall  not  have  informed  you 
of  all  the  "  distinguished  presences,"  however,  without  mentioning, 
that,  at  a  double  window  which  opened  from  the  dining-room  to 
the  hall,  like  a  box  at  the  opera,  were  seated  several  of  the  more 
charming  descendants  of  the  Pilgrims,  and,  among  them,  Mrs. 
Bancroft,  (wife  of  the  late  Minister  to  England,)  whom  the 
younger  Quincy,  in  his  speech,  took  occasion  to  compliment  very 
gracefully  upon  her  felicitous  representation  of  the  ladies  of  the 
Pilgrim  stock  at  the  proudest  Court  of  Europe.  Perhaps  it 
would  interest  our  female  readers  to  add,  that  the  elder  Quincy, 
who  was  also  present,  made  a  speech  in  which  he  tartly  called  the 
principal  orators  to  order,  they  (Mr.  Webster,  Mr.  Everett  and 
Mr.  Winthrop)  having  glorified  the  pilgrim  fore-fathers,  to  the 
exclusion  of  the  pilgrim  fore-movers,  without  whose  assistance, 
he  thought,  the  handings  down  to  us  from  Plymouth  would  have 
been  very  distressingly  interrupted. 

Mr.  Webster  was  already  in  the  reception-room  on  the  arrival 
of  the  special  train  which  brought  the  guests  from  Boston,  dressed 
with  that  courtly  particularity  which  becomes  him,  and  he  made 
his  greetings  to  his  friends,  as  they  came  in,  like  Nature's 
monarch  that  he  is,  with  an  uncontrived  and  unoppressive  dignity 
and  simplicity.  He  was  suffering  from  an  annual  affliction  to 
which  he  is  subject,  in  the  shape  of  what  is  called  in  England  the 


14  JUDGE    WARREN. 


"  hay-fever" — a  sort  of  catarrh  which  comes  to  some  persons 
with  each  year's  infusion  of  the  aroma  of  new-cut  grass  into  the 
atmosphere.  It  had  evidently  prostrated  his  usual  strength  and 
spirits,  and,  when  not  conversing,  he  looked  scarcely  in  fit 
condition,  even  for  silent  presence  at  a  festivity. 

At  the  announcement  of  dinner,  Mr.  Webster,  who  was  to  fill 
"  the  chair,"  took  the  arm  of  a  venerable  clergyman  of  Plymouth 
who  has  occupied  the  same  pulpit  for  fifty  years,  and  he  seated 
himself  at  the  cross-table,  between  this  gentleman  and  Dr. 
Wayland.  Two  long  tables  extended  down  the  large  dining-hall 
of  the  Hotel,  and,  at  the  upper  extremity  of  one,  Mr.  Everett  was 
peninsulated  by  Mr.  Mildmay,  and  near  the  upper  end  of  the 
other  sat  Mr.  Winthrop — these  two  the  principal  oratorical 
reliances  of  the  occasion.  The  witty  and  life-enjoying  Judge 
Warren,  (the  most  agreeable  man  for  so  eminent  a  one  that  the 
maturing  succession  to  the  Webster  epoch  has  to  show,)  had  the 
management  of  the  dinner  arrangements,  and  he  was  well 
appointed,  no  less  for  his  ready  judgment  and  courtesy  than  as 
being  President  of  the  "  Pilgrim  Society,"  and  the  best  descended 
man  in  New  England — having,  in  his  genealogical  tree,  six  of  the 
best  known  names  among  the  company  of  the  Mayflower. 

I  think  I  have  now  drawn  in  the  outline  of  the  scene  with 
sufficient  distinctness — accessory  as  every  thing  seemed,  and  was, 
to  the  principal  personage  in  the  picture.  Mr.  Webster  arose, 
when  the  cloth  was  removed,  and,  in  his  primitive  and  simple 
diction,  opened  the  historic  purpose  of  the  celebration.  He 
illustrated  the  event  of  the  embarcation  most  aptly  and  impress 
ively,  as  a  painter  illustrates  an  historical  group,  by  giving  the 
scenery  around  it.  He  drew  the  moral  sky  and  atmosphere  amid 
which  the  pilgrims  resolved  upon  their  voyage — sketching  the 


WEBSTER'S   SPEECH.  15 


great  men  of  that  period,  Shakspeare,  Milton,  Bacon  and  others, 
with  their  contemporaneous  intellectual  momenta,  in  a  strain  of 
narrative  eloquence,  that,  quiet  as  it  was,  showed  the  great  master. 
He  then  outlined  the  progress  of  the  principles  of  the  pilgrims, 
and,  by  easy  transition,  passed  thence  to  the  extension  of  the 
republic's  power  and  limits.  With  a  reservation  as  to  his  own 
concurrence  in  the  grasp  after  grasp  that  we  have  taken,  of  terri 
tory  South  and  West,  he  expressed,  in  an  outbreak  of  most 
glowing  and  overpowering  eloquence,  his  feeling  as  to  liberal 
usage  and  prompt  equalization  of  rights  to  all  who  are  once 
covered  with  our  banner.  Glancing  at  our  relative  position 
toward  the  Governments  of  Europe,  he  spoke  of  Hungary  and  its 
downfall,  giving  that  unhappy  country  his  complete  sympathy, 
and  mourning  over  its  prostration,  with  the  language,  and  cer 
tainly  with  the  look,  of  a  prophet  whose  spirit  was  darkened, 
though  he  still  expressed  a  confidence  that  the  liberty,  panted  for 
abroad,  could  not  long  be  kept  under.  The  probable  and  possible 
future  of  our  own  country,  and  the  needful  extension  of  the 
pilgrim  principles  through  its  remotest  limit  of  space  and  time, 
formed  the  theme  of  the  great  orator's  impassioned  conclusion. 

These  were  the  topics  upon  which  Mr.  Webster  had  come 
prepared  to  express  himself ;  but  he  was  once  or  twice  again  upon 
his  feet,  during  the  evening,  and,  in  taking  his  leave,  he  made  a 
parting  address  that  was  of  a  different  tenor  and  modulation. 
Unable,  from  illness,  to  join  in  the  conviviality  of  the  evening,  he 
was,  possibly,  saddened  by  a  mirth  with  which  his  spirits  could 
not  keep  pace  ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  surrounded  by  those  who 
had  met  there  from  love  to  him,  and  whose  pride  and  idol  he  had 
always  been,  his  kindest  and  warmest  feelings  were  uppermost, 
and  his  heart  alone  was  in  what  he  had  to  say.  His  affectionate 


16  PHYSIOGNOMY    IN    ILLNESS. 


attachment  to  New  England  was  the  leading  sentiment,  but, 
through  his  allusions  to  his  own  advancing  age  and  present  illness, 
there  was  recognizable  a  wish  to  say  what  he  might  wish  to  have 
said,  should  he  never  again  be  so  surrounded  and  listened  to.  It 
was  the  most  beautiful  example  of  manly  and  restrained  pathos, 
it  seemed  to  me,  of  which  language  and  looks  could  be  capable. 
No  one  who  heard  it  could  doubt  the  existence  of  a  deep  well  of 
tears  under  that  lofty  temple  of  intellect  and  power. 

Sickness,  like  low  tide,  shows  the  true  depths  and  shallows  of 
the  harbor  of  expression  in  a  face,  and  I  looked  long  and  earnestly 
at  the  noble  invalid,  both  as  he  sat  and  as  he  spoke,  to  see,  if 
possible,  where  his  tide-channels  lay,  and  where  his  ever-buoyant 
greatness  had,  at  least,  come  nearest  to  running  aground.  He 
was  really  ill — much  thinner  than  I  had  ever  seen  him,  and  so 
debilitated,  that,  in  his  least  emphatic  sentences,  the  more  difficult 
words  failed  of  complete  utterance.  Without  color,  without  the 
excitement  of  high  spirits,  fallen  away  in  flesh,  and,  evidently, 
completely  unconscious  of  the  observation  of  those  around,  he 
was  there  without  the  advantages  of  an  ordinary  public  appear 
ance — himself,  and  at  the  ebb.  Sombre  as  the  lines  are, 
unlighted  with  health  or  impulse — the  eyes  so  cavernous  and 
dark,  the  eyelids  so  livid,  eyebrows  so  heavy  and  black,  and  the 
features  so  habitually  grave — it  is  a  face  of  strong  affections, 
genial,  and  foreign  to  all  unkindness.  There  is  not  a  trace  in  it 
where  a  pettiness  or  a  peevishness  could  lodge,  and  no  means  in 
its  sallow  muscles  for  the  expression  of  an  intellectual  littleness 
or  perversion.  It  is  all  broad — all  majestic — all  expansive  and 
generous.  The  darkness  in  it  is  the  shadow  of  a  Salvator  Kosa, 
a  heightening  of  grandeur  without  injury  to  the  clearness.  It  is 
easy  to  imagine,  looking  at  his  ponderous  forehead  alone,  how 


WEBSTER'S    TEMPERAMENT.  17 


Webster  might  have  been  ill-balanced  with  a  little  difference  of 
nature.  Less  physically  powerful,  or  with  less  strong  sensuous 
affections,  he  might  have  been  an  intellectual  man,  without  a 
statesman's  deep-ploughing  propulsion,  or  without  a  practical 
man's  appreciation  of  the  common-place,  and  constancy  of  every 
day  purpose — he  might  have  been  a  great  poet,  in  short,  with 
infirmities  enough  to  have  made  a  good  biography.  With  less 
intellect,  on  the  contrary,  the  powerful  animal  that  he  is  would 
have  developed,  perhaps,  in  antagonism  and  passionate  violence, 
and  we  might  have  had  a  mob-swaying  politician,  blind  with 
headlong  impulses  and  intoxicated  with  his  power.  It  is  in  his 
consistent  and  proportionate  endowment,  that  his  greatness  lies. 
His  physical  superiority,  and  noble  disposition,  (if  his  grand  face, 
in  the  subsided  lines  of  illness,  tells  truly  to  my  reading,)  are  in 
just  balance  with  his  mind,  and  keep  its  path  broad  and  its  policy 
open.  It  is  the  great  mind  with  the  small  heart  which  makes  a 
dwindling  and  illiberal  old  age.  Webster — incapable  of  the  fore 
cast  narrowness  which  makes  the  scope  of  character  converge 
when  meridian  ambition  and  occupation  fill  it  no  longer — will 
walk  the  broadening  path  that  has  been  divergent  and  liberalizing 
from  his  childhood  to  the  present  hour,  till  he  steps  from  its 
expanding  lines  into  his  grave. 

There  were  other  speeches  containing  ideas  worthy  of  record — 
one  by  Mr.  Everett  in  his  faultless  style,  a  very  graceful  and  effect 
ive  one  by  Mr.  Winthrop,  two  or  three  delightfully  witty  and 
pithy  reply-speeches  by  Judge  Warren,  good  sentiments  by 
President  Wayland,  compliments  to  Plymouth  as  the  "  Mecca  of 
America"  by  Governor  Woodbury,  compliments  to  the  ladies  by 
the  two  Quincys,  and  several  good  answers  to  healths  proposed — 
but,  of  these,  though  a  synopsis  would  be  both  instructive  and 


18  WEBSTER'S    COUNTRY    SEAT. 


amusing,  I  have  not  time  to  give  it.  "We  had  sat  down  at  three, 
and  left  the  table  at  eight,  and,  the  cars  being  in  attendance,  the 
greater  part  of  the  company  was  in  Boston  again  at  ten. 

In  my  previous  visit  to  Plymouth,  I  gratified  my  admiring 
curiosity  by  a  drive  to  Mr.  Webster's  home  in  Marshfield, 
(twelve  miles  distant,)  though,  not  having  the  honor  of  a  visiting 
acquaintance  with  the  great  statesman,  I  could  only  venture  upon 
what  I  was  assured  was  a  customary  liberty  for  strangers — a  drive 
round  the  noble  elm  which  turns  the  carriage  road  upon  his  lawn. 
The  house,  though  the  picture  of  English  refinement  and  rural 
comfort,  is  still  a  very  unpresuming  exponent  of  the  fifteen 
hundred  acres  which  surround,  as  well  as  of  the  distinction  which 
inhabits  it ;  and  this,  to  one  who  has  noticed  the  disproportion  of 
our  American  palaces,  in  the  country,  to  the  quantity  of  land 
appertaining,  is  a  pleasurable  example  of  good  taste.  Marshfield 
has  been  often  described,  and  I  could  only  admire,  verifyingly, 
the  evidences  of  thrift  and  high  culture  by  which  the  great  farmer 
has  made  himself  a  supplementary  citizenship  and  reputation. 
In  this  home  of  his  own  choosing  and  embellishing,  fitly  secluded 
between  his  wide  woodlands  and  the  sea,  may  he  freshen  and 
rally,  after  retirement  from  public  life,  and  enjoy  the  green  and 
vigorous  old  age  of  which  his  majestic  frame  gives  him  the 
promise !  Such  men  should  not  whiten  their  locks  amid  the 
disrespect  of  cities. 

Half  an  hour,  only,  before  the  mail  closes,  and  I  scarce  know 
what  to  pick  out  for  mention,  among  the  many  delightful  circum 
stances  of  my  first  visit  to  Plymouth.  One  goes  there  with 
reverence.  It  is,  as  Gov.  Woodbury  said  in  his  speech,  "  the 
Mecca"  of  our  country.  The  old  houses  have  a  delightful 
physiognomy  to  me,  and  the  crooked  and  sociable  looking  streets 


CURIOUS    LETTER.  19 


look,  as  the  breaking-off  place  from  the  old  country  should  look — 
like  old  Plymouth,  or  old  Stratford-on-Avon.  Judge  Warren 
kindly  gave  us  a  look  into  the  mansion  of  his  Mayflower  family — 
a  delightful  old  wooden  house  with  low  ceilings,  which  has  stood 
near  two  hundred  years,  and  is  filled  with  relics  of  the  six  pilgrim 
families  that  collected  round  its  hearth  in  relationship.  There 
were  the  antique  chairs,  (one,  particularly,  brought  over  by  Gov. 
Winslow,  and  with  the  staples  still  on  its  sides  by  which  it  was 
fastened  to  the  cabin  of  the  Mayflower,)  and  the  home-like 
cupboards  and  closets  still  full  of  the  old  china  and  silver,  and  the 
quaint  furniture  of  former  times  in  all  its  variety  and  profusion. 
The  Judge's  venerable  mother,  (the  sixth  generation  from  the 
landing,)  still  inhabits  this  home  of  his  fathers. 

I  was  struck  with  an  admirable  Letter  from  John  Adams  to 
James  Warren,  which  I  read,  in  turning  over  a  mass  of  Letters 
from  Washington  and  the  patriots  of  the  day,  addressed  to 
different  members  of  the  Judge's  family,  and,  as  his  brother 
kindly  made  a  copy  of  it,  at  my  request,  1  enclose  it,  with  one  or 
two  other  good  things  of  which  I  made  copies  at  the  Pilgrim 
Hall.  My  time  is  up.  Adieu. 

Yours,  &c. 


[The  following  are  the  enclosures  referred  to : — ] 

Copy  of  a  Letter  from  John  Adams  to  James  Warren,  written  the  morning  after 
the  throwing  overboard  of  the  tea  in  Boston  Harbor. 

BOSTON,  Dec'r  17,  1773. 

D'B  SIR  :— The  Dye  is  cast.    The  People  have  passed  the  River  and  cult 
away  the  Bridge :  last  Night  Three  Cargoes  of  Tea,  were  emptied  into  the 


20  THE    WARREN    LETTER. 


Harbour.  This  is  the  grandest  Event  which  has  ever  yet  happened  since  the 
controversy  with  Britain  opened ! 

The  Sublimity  of  it  charms  me  ! 

For  my  own  Part,  I  cannot  express  my  own  Sentiments  of  it,  better  than 
in  the  words  of  Coll.  Doane  to  me,  last  Evening.  Balch  should  repeat  them. 
The  worst  that  can  happen,  I  think,  says  he,  in  consequence  of  it,  will  be 
that  the  Province  must  pay  for  it.  Now,  I  think  the  Province  may  pay  for 
it,  if  it  is  burn'd  as  easily  as  if  it  is  drank — and  I  think  it  is  a  matter  of 
indifference  whether  it  is  drank  or  drowned.  The  Province  must  pay  for  it 
in  either  case — But  there  is  this  Difference,  I  believe — it  will  take  them 
10  years  to  get  the  Province  to  pay  for  it — if  so  we  shall  save  10  years 
interest  of  the  money — whereas  if  it  is  drank  it  must  be  paid  for  immediately, 
thus  He. — However  He  agreed  with  me  that  the  Province  would  never  pay 
for  it — and  also  in  this  that  the  final  Ruin  of  our  Constitution  of  Government, 
and  of  all  American  Liberties  would  be  the  certain  Consequence  of  suffering 
it  to  be  landed. 

Governor  Hutchinson  and  his  Family  and  Friends  will  never  have  done 
with  their  good  services  to  Great  Britain  and  the  Colonies !  But  for  him 
this  Tea  might  have  been  saved  to  the  East  India  Company.  Whereas  this 
Loss  if  the  rest  of  the  Colonies  should  follow  our  Example,  will  in  the 
opinion  of  many  Persons  bankrupt  the  Company.  However,  I  dare  say, 
that  the  Governors,  and  Consignees,  and  Custom  House  Officers  in  the  other 
Colonies  will  have  more  Wisdom  than  ours  have  had  and  take  effectual  Care 
that  their  Tea  shall  be  sent  back  to  England  untouched— if  not  it  will  as 
surely  be  destroyed  there  as  it  has  been  here. 

Threats.  Phantoms,  Bugbears  by  the  million,  will  be  invented  and  propa 
gated  among  the  People  upon  this  occasion— Individuals  will  be  threatened 
with  Suits  and  Prosecutions— Armies  and  Navies  will  be  talked  of— military 
Executions— Charters  annulled— Treason— Tryals  in  England  and  all  that — 
But— these  Terrors  are  all  but  Imaginations— Yet  if  they  should  become 
Realities  they  had  better  be  suffered  than  the  great  Principle  of  Parliament 
ary  Taxation  given  up. 

The  Town  of  Boston  was  never  more  still  and  calm  of  a  Saturday  night 
than  it  was  last  Night— all  Things  were  conducted  with  great  order, 


SAMOSET.  21 


Decency,  and  perfect  submission  to  Government.  No  doubt  we  all  thought  the 
administration  in  better  hands  than  it  had  been. 

Please  to  make  Mrs.  Adams's  most  respectful  Compliments  to  Mrs. 
Warren,  and  mine.  I  am  your  Friend,  JOHN  ADAMS. 

Coll.  WARREN. 


[The  principal  Hotel  at  Plymouth  is  named  the  Samoset 
House,  after  the  Indian  chief  who  gave  a  frank  welcome  to  the 
Pilgrims.  Very  recently  a  Chippeway  chief  with  some  of  his 
tribe,  visted  Plymouth  in  the  course  of  a  tour,  exhibiting  tr^ 
war-dance,  etc.  While  there,  he  presented  to  the  Pilgrim  Hall 
his  portrait  in  war  costume,  painted  by  his  son,  and  dictated  the 
following  admirable  letter,  which,  I  think,  the  friendly  Samoset 
would  like  to  rise  from  the  dead  and  read  :] 

BROTHERS,  We  give  our  sincere  thanks  to  the  Great  Spirit  in  allowing  us 
to  see  you  this  day.  Many  winters  and  summers  have  gone  by,  since  our 
fathers  first  saw  each  other  in  this  place. 

We  have  seen  the  rock,  once  our  own,  the  rock  that  was  the  foundation 
for  the  first  step  your  fathers  made  when  they  landed  here,  from  the  other 
side  of  the  great  waters. 

BROTHERS,  It  is  said  that  our  fathers  were  in  great  fear  of  one  another, 
when  they  first  saw  each  other;  but  now  we,  their  children,  see  one 
another  with  friendship,  love  and  kindness. 

BROTHERS,  If  our  fathers  have  been  enemies  to  each  other,  and  have  had 
many  wars  between  them,  we  sincerely  hope  that  we  their  children  will 
never  be  so,  but  that  we  may  live  in  peace  with  one  another  in  this  world, 
and  forever  in  the  other. 

BROTHERS,  If  we  should  say  that  your  coming  to  America  has  been  a 
great  evil  to  us,  it  would  be  no  other  than  speaking  against  the  orders  of  the 
Great  Spirit.  The  wisdom  of  His  thoughts  we  cannot  see  with  eye  of  our 


22  PITHY    LETTER. 


minds.  He  alone  was  the  cause  of  America  being  discovered  by  white  men ; 
seeing  that  there  would  have  been  no  room  for  you  all  -on  the  small  island 
called  England.  He  is  kind  to  all  his  children.  Your  coming  to  our  coun 
try  is  a  general  blessing  to  you.  and  we  believe  it  is  for  our  good  too. 

BROTHERS,  We  have  been  travelling  four  years  among  the  whites  in 
Europe,  and  in  this  country,  and  we  have  been  treated  very  kindly  indeed. 

BROTHERS,  May  you  and  we  always  enjoy  bright  and  happy  days. 

BROTHERS,  I  present  this  picture  to  the  Pilgrim  Society,  a  representation 
of  our  dress  before  you  this  evening. 

Presented  by  MAUNGUNDASES,  drawn  by  his  son  WANBUDICK,  Chippeways. 

[There  is  another  specimen  of  the  native  royal  literature  of  our 
country,  of  which  the  original  hangs  up  in  the  Pilgrim  Hall,  and 
it  is  pithy  enough  to  be  re-copied  in  connection  with  the  above  :] 

KING  PHILIP  TO  GOVERNOR  PRINCE. 

To  the  much  honored  Governor  THOMAS  PRINCE,  dwelling  at  Plymouth. 
HONORED  SIR  :  King  Philip  desires  to  let  you  understand  that  he  could 
not  come  to  the  Court,  for  torn  his  interpreter  has  a  pain  in  his  back  that  he 
could  not  travel  so  far,  and  Philip's  sister  is  very  sick.  Philip  would  entreat 
that  favor  of  you,  and  any  of  the  Magistrates,  if  oney  English  or  ingeins 
speak  about  aney  land,  he  prays  you  to  give  them  no  answer  at  all.  The 
last  summer  he  maid  that  promise  with  you,  that  he  would  sell  no  land  in 
seven  years  time,  for  that  he  would  have  no  English  trouble  him  before  that 
time,  he  has  not  forgot  that  you  promise  him.  he  will  come  as  soon  as 
possible  he  can  to  speak  with  you,  and  so  I  rest  your  verey  loving  friend. 
PHILIP,  dwelling  at  Mount  Hope  neck.  (1663.) 

[I  must  vary  these  prose  extracts  with  one  specimen  of  Ameri 
can  poetry  "  two  hundred  years  ago."  Miles  Standish  was  the 
gallant  Bayard,  the  fearless  soldier  of  the  Mayflower  company, 
and  a  piece  of  his  daughter's  embroidery  hangs  up  in  the  Pilgrim 
Hall,  at  the  bottom  of  which  her  needle  has  stitched  the  follow 
ing  lines :] 


PILGRIM    POETRY.  23 

"  Lorra  Standish  is  my  name 
Lord  guide  my  hart  that  I  may  doe  thy  will ; 
Also  fill  my  hands  with  such  convenient  skill, 
As  may  conduce  to  virtue  void  of  shame 
And  I  will  give  the  glory  to  thy  name." 


LETTER  FROM  NEW  BEDFORD, 

Effect  of  Steamer  Starting  from  the  Wharf— Piece  of  a  Town  afloat— The 
Phenixed  Boat— Cost  of  Empire  State— Vocation  of  Captain— Spectacle 
of  Supper  in  a  Cabin  Two  Hundred  and  Fifty  Feet  Long— Effect  on 
Manners— Sumptuous  Entertainment  for  Fifty  Cents— Excuse  for  Statistics 
—New  Bedford  and  its  Wealth— Climate  and  Industry— Geographic 
Peculiarities— "  Placer"  for  Beauty— The  Acushnet— Old  Fashioned 
Prejudices  and  Modern  Luxury— Statesmanlike  Remedy  for  Decline  of 
Local  Trade  and  Industry— Proposed  Visit  to  the  Raised  Leg  of  New 
England,  etc.,  etc. 

MY  DEAR  MORRIS  : — If  you  have  any  recollection  of  what  the 
boys  call  "  running  kittledys"— prying  off  and  jumping  upon  cakes 
of  ice  and  navigating  them,  when  the  frozen  river  is  breaking  up 
into  floating  islands,  in  the  Spring— you  can  understand  what  I 
mean  when  I  say  that  one  of  these  vast  steamboats,  leaving  the 
wharf,  seems  to  me  like  a  whole  street  cake-ing  off  into  the  river. 
I  walked  the  length  of  the  "  Empire  State,"  yesterday,  before 
starting,  and,  when  she  glided  away  from  the  pier  alongside  of 
the  Battery,  it  struck  me  like  the  lower  end  of  the  town  going 
adrift— like  "  Ward  No.  1"  getting  under  weigh.  And,  really, 


A    STEAMBOAT    CAPTAIN.  25 


this  great  flotilla  comprises  almost  as  much  of  a  town  as  one 
wants — quite  as  much,  at  least,  as  one  wishes  to  take  into  the 
country  in  August — drawing-rooms,  sleeping-rooms,  and  kitchens, 
stables  and  baggage-rooms,  barber's  shop  and  refectory,  lounging 
places  and  promenades,  ladies  to  wait  upon  and  servants  to  wait 
on  us,  goods  and  merchandise  of  every  description,  supper,  soci 
ety  and  something  to  see.  If  we  could  pack  up  a  portion  of  the 
city,  as  we  do  a  portion  of  our  wardrobe,  and  take  it  travelling 
with  us  as  "  baggage,"  we  should  hardly  want  more. 

The  "  Empire  State"  is  the  boat  that  phenixed,  last  year — was 
burnt  to  the  water's  edge,  that  is  to  say,  and  rebuilt — and,  superb 
as  was  the  former  boat,  this  is  an  improvement  on  her.  The 
tremulous  jar  which  we  used  to  feel  at  either  end  of  the  old  boat, 
is  remedied  by  extension  of  the  bracing  portions  of  this,  and  she 
goes  through  the  water  now,  at  eighteen  miles  an  hour,  as  steadily 
as  a  swan.  The  cost  of  one  of  these  floating  palaces  may  help 
you  to  an  idea  of  their  magnitude  and  magnificence — one  hundred 
and  eighty  thousand  dollars !  The  Fall  River  Company  have 
another  such  boat,  a  little  larger  than  this,  and  a  smaller  one  ; 
and  their  outlay,  altogether,  I  was  told — for  craft,  warehouses, 
wharves,  etc., — amounts  to  half  a  million  !  This,  as  the  invest 
ment  of  capital  in  only  one  of  several  lines  of  conveyance  in  the 
same  direction,  shows  the  energy  of  Yankee  enterprise  very  for 
cibly.  The  burnt  upper  works  of  the  boat  that  was  destroyed,  I 
should  mention,  were  replaced  at  a  cost  of  one  hundred  and 
twenty  thousand  dollars. 

The  captain  of  one  of  these  boats  exercises  an  office  of  very  re 
sponsible  control.  The  daily  municipality,  (subject  to  his  may 
oralty  from  wharf  to  wharf,)  often  comprises  upwards  of  five  hun 
dred  souls,  including  fifty  or  so  of  permanent  subordinates ;  and 


25  STEAMBOAT    SUPPER. 

the  demands  on  his  tact,  judgment,  personal  character  and  author 
ity,  besides  the  life  and  property  entrusted  to  his  skill, are  enough 
to  entitle  his  office  (and  all  offices  should  be  graded  by  their  power 
and  responsibility)  to  the  consideration  and  dignity  of  a  prefect. 
We  should  be  better  off,  if  large  cities  could  be  as  well  disciplined 
and  governed  as  are  these  floating  towns  of  temporary  popula 
tion.  The  "  Empire  State"  is  a  beautiful  model  of  system,  ele 
gance  and  comfort.  The  quiet  decision,  and  good-humored  mas 
tership  and  authority  of  Comstock,  her  captain,  who  is  a  fine  spe 
cimen  of  his  class,  form  a  controlling  power  that  works  like  his 
boat's  rudder.  It  seems  to  affect  even  the  manners  at  the  sup 
per-table,  for,  chance-met  and  promiscuous  as  is  the  company, 
never  twice  the  same,  it  is  as  orderly  a  show,  in  its  general  effect, 
as  any  entertainment  in  the  world.  This  sort  of  thing,  mind  you, 
is  found  in  no  other  country,  and  when  first  seen,  it  is  very  im 
pressive  to  a  stranger.  The  room  in  which  it  is  served,  the  lower 
cabin,  is  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  long,  richly  and  continuously 
draped  on  both  sides  with  curtains  of  costly  material  and  brilliant 
colors ;  and  the  two  immensely  long  tables  are  furnished  in  a 
style  of  most  sumptuous  luxury.  Vases  of  flowers,  elegant  china, 
bouquets  at  every  third  or  fourth  plate,  and  a  profusion  of  chan 
deliers  and  candles,  are  the  ornamental  portion.  The  well-drilled 
negro  waiters  in  their  uniform  white  jackets  are  apparently  select 
ed  for  their  good  looks  as  well  as  for  their  capability.  The  sup 
per  consists  of  game,  fish,  oysters,  steaks  of  all  kinds,  every  vari 
ety  of  bread  and  sweetmeats,  and  tea  and  coffee,  with  an  after- 
course  of  ices  and  jellies — all  well  cooked  and  all  served  as  quietly 
and  expeditiously  as  it  could  be  done  in  a  palace — and,  that  this 
could  be  afforded  at  fifty  cents  a  head,  would  astonish  a  European. 
Now,  every-day  matter  as  this  is,  it  is  a  brilliant  spectacle  of  gre- 


A    RICH   TOWN. 


garious  economy,  worth  travelling  some  distance  to  see,  and  as 
creditable  to  our  country,  as  it  is  peculiarly  American.     Let  us 
recognize  good  things  as  they  go  along,  familiar  though  they  be  ! 
New  Bedford,  (the  place  of  my  present  writing,)  is  two  hun 
dred  and  twenty-five  miles  from  New  York— twenty-five  miles  by 
railroad  from  Fall  Kiver,  to  which  these  steamers  ply.     One  gets 
here  by  a  capital  supper,  a  night's  sleep  on  the  water,  and  an 
hour's  ride  in  the  morning— cost  (for  feed  and  freight)  four  dol 
lars  ten  cents.     If  I  am  a  little  dry,  with  my  statistics,  by  the 
way,  you  will  remember  that  it  is  easy  to  skip  a  fact,  if  you  knew 
it  before— vexatious  to  miss  one  if  you  want  and  do  not  find  it. 
How  ignorant  are  you,  on  the  whole,  my  dear  General  ?     It  is 
not  always  safe,  I  have  found,  to  presume   on  people's  knowing 
everything,  and,  in   the  remainder  of  this  letter,  particularly,  I 
shall  address  you  as  if  you  knew  nothing. 

What  do  you  think  of  a  town,  in  which,  if  the  property  taxed 
in  it  were  equally  divided,   every  man,  woman  and  child,  in  its 
population,  would  have  over  one  thousand  dollars  ?      This  makes 
a  rich  town,  (they  would  say  in  Ireland,)  and,  in  fact,  New  Bed 
ford  is  as  rich,  for  its  population,  as  any  town  in  this  country. 
The  taxed  property  this  year  is  $17,237,400,  and  the  whole  num 
ber  of  inhabitants  is  but  about  sixteen  thousand.     The  use  of 
capital  by  which  the  place  is  best  known,  is  its  whaling  business 
—a  hundred  ships,  averaging  each   thirty  thousand  dollars  in 
value,  belonging  to  this  port  alone.     Twenty  or  thirty  years  ago, 
this  was  the  engrossing  interest  of  the  town,  and  the  arrival  of  a 
ship  from  sea  drew  everybody  to  the  wharves  ;  but  now  they  come 
and  go,  unnoticed  except  by  owners  and  the  relatives  of  the  crew. 
The  sexagenarians  tell  how  the  railroad  and  the  theatre  have  dis 
placed  the  old  excitements,  and,  with  this  history  of  change  comes 


28          CLIMATE  OF  NEW  BEDFORD. 


a  long  chapter  upon  novelties  in  dress  and  religion,  nearly  the 
entire  population  having  once  been  Quakers.  Luxurious  as  the 
town  is,  now,  however,  and  few  and  far  between  as  are  the  lead- 
colored  bonnets  and  drab  cut-away  coats,  there  is  a  strong  tinc 
ture  of  Quaker  precision  and  simplicity  in  the  manners  of  the 
wealthier  class  in  New  Bedford,  and,  among  the  nautical  class,  it 
mixes  up  very  curiously  with  the  tarpaulin  carelessness  and  ease. 
The  railroad,  which  has  brought  Boston  within  two  hours  distance, 
is  fast  cosrnopolizmg  away  the  local  peculiarities,  and  though  at 
present,  I  think,  I  could  detect  the  New  Bedford  relish,  in  almost 
any  constant  inhabitant  whom  I  might  meet  elsewhere,'  they  will 
soon  be  undistinguishable,  probably,  from  other  New  Englanders. 
As  to  the  geography  of  the  place,  you  may,  if  you  please,  ima 
gine  Massachusetts  sitting  down  with  her  feet  in  the  waters  of 
the  Acushnet,  where  that  river  opens  upon  Buzzard's  Bay,  and 
looking  off  towards  the  Gulf  of  Mexico — New  Bedford  occupying, 
meantime,  the  slope  of  her  instep.  The  southern  shore  of  the 
Granite  State,  is  fringed  with  islands  which  break  the  ocean 
horizon ;  but  the  warm  and  moist  air  of  the  gulf  comes  un 
checked  hither,  with  every  continuous  south  wind,  affecting  very 
much,  (and  very  delightfully,  to  my  sense),  the  climate  of  the 
place.  The  eighty  miles'  stretch  of  land  which  extends  back,  be 
tween  it  and  Massachusetts  Bay,  uses  up,  at  the  same  time,  the 
bilious  acid  of  the  Boston  east  winds ;  and,  but  for  its  greater 
clearness,  the  weather,  here,  would  resemble,  in  most  of  its  tem 
perate  seasons  and  phases,  that  of  the  south  of  England.  The 
thermometer,  on  an  average,  is  five  degrees  higher  than  in  Bos 
ton,  though  the  breezy  exposure  to  the  sea  makes  the  extreme 
heat  of  summer  more  endurable  here  than  there.  A  southern 


OPPOSITION    TO    SIDEWALKS.  39 

propinquity  to  the  ocean  is  very  favorable  to  complexion,  and 
this  is  a  "placer"  for  bright  lips  and  rosy  cheeks  accordingly. 

The  Acusbnet  is  more  an  arm  of  the  sea  than  a  river  proper> 
and,  as  the  harbor  is  in  the  hollow  of  this  arm,  the  old  maritime 
town  takes  a  very  close  hug  from  it — some  of  the  best  of  the  old 
houses  being  but  a  biscuit  pitch  from  the  vessels  at  the  wharves. 
On  the  table-summit  of  the  precipitous  hill  which  rises  immedi 
ately  behind  the  town,  stands  one  of  the  finest  arrays  of  dwelling- 
houses  in  this  country— an  extensive  neighborhood  of  costly 
villas,  with  each  its  ample  surrounding  of  grounds  and  garden — 
and  this  part  of  New  Bedford  reminds  one  of  the  Isle  of  Wight  or 
English  Clifton.  One  of  the  well-remembered  events  of  the 
town's  history — a  matter  of  twenty  or  thirty  years  ago — is  the  op 
position  made  to  the  introduction  of  sidewalks  ;  the  influential  and 
wealthy  of  that  period  insisting  that  they  had  walked  comfortably 
enough  over  the  round  stones  ;  yet,  in  the  beautiful  houses  where 
many  of  these  easily  suited  persons  are  now  growing  old,  is  to  be 
found  luxury  in  its  most  refined  shapes  and  costliest  superfluities 
— so  readily,  in  this  mobile  country  of  ours,  do  classes  and  cus 
toms  undergo  changes  the  most  improbable. 

An  idea  has  been  liberally  and  successfully  acted  upon  at  New 
Bedford,  which  is  somewhat  analogous  to  Nature's  provision  for 
the  supply  of  the  Croton — (three  or  four  lakes  in  reserve  in  case 
the  principal  one  should  fail) — and,  as  it  embodies  a  useful  ex 
ample,  both  of  political  economy  and  of  practical  philanthropy,  I 
will  ballast  my  sketchy  letter  with  its  mention.  Whaling,  as 
every  one  knows,  has  been  the  principal  commerce  and  industry 
of  the  town  since  its  first  settlement.  The  large  fortunes  pos 
sessed  here  have  been  mostly  made  in  this  trade,  and  the  majority 
of  the  inhabitants,  even  now,  are  mostly  dependent  on  it,  in  one 


30  WAMSUTTA    FACTORY. 


shape  or  another.  From  various  causes,  the  profits  of  this  long 
lucrative  resource  have  lessened  within  the  last  few  years,  or  at 
least  the  shipping  enterprise  has  not  increased  with  the  popula 
tion  and  its  wants.  A  farther  falling  off,  of  this  vital  supply  of 
prosperity,  was  foreseen  to  be  possible,  and  recognized  at  once  as 
a  calamity  which  the  wealthy  might  not  feel,  who  could  easily 
employ  their  capital  elsewhere,  but  which  would  fall  very  heavily 
on  the  families  of  the  maritime  class.  It  was  evident  that  some 
new  industry  must  be  grafted  on  the  habits  of  the  place,  and  that 
it  must,  if  possible,  be  one  of  which  the  families  of  sailors  and 
mechanics  could  avail  themselves,  independent  of  the  precarious 
yield  from  "  following  the  sea."  The  decline  of  many  a  town 
shows  that  the  industry  of  communities  is'  not,  in  itself,  a  very 
Protean  or  self-restoring  principle,  and,  unless  cared  for  and  re 
directed  by  far-sighted  and  higher  intelligence,  will  lose  courage 
with  the  exhaustion  of  a  particular  vein.  Enterprise,  for  indi 
vidual  gain  alone,  is  slow  to  provide  new  branches  of  trade.  It 
must  be  done  from  public  spirit,  and  by  a  combination  of  the 
sagacity  to  contrive  and  the  influence  to  induce  and  control  capi 
tal.  This  is  the  moral  history  of  the  establishment  of  the  WAM 
SUTTA  STEAM  COTTON  FACTORY,  which  has  lately  been  put  into 
operation  at  New  Bedford,  with  a  capital  of  three  hundred  thou 
sand  dollars,  and  in  which  a  sailor's  daughter,  for  example,  (who 
else  might  be  painfully  dependent,  or  compelled  to  leave  home 
and  go  out  to  service,)  may  earn  four  dollars  a  week  by  inde 
pendent  and  undegrading  labor.  This  is  the  average  of  the  pre 
sent  earnings  of  two  hundred  operatives  in  this  new  factory  ;  and, 
as  the  investment  is  already  proved  to  be  a  good  one,  other  fac 
tories  will  doubtless  be  built,  and  the  industry  of  New  Bedford, 
turned  into  a  new  and  more  reliable  and  acceptable  channel,  will 


HON.    JOSEPH    GRINNELL.  31 


be  independent  of  the  precarious  resources  of'  whaling.  Towns 
are  well  furnished  that  have  controlling  minds  among  their  inhabi 
tants,  capable  of  this  sort  of  enlarged  foresight  and  remedy, 
to  provide  new  conduits  against  their  natural  or  accidental 
depletion.  New  Bedford  is  indebted  for  this  to  its  able 
Representative  in  Congress,  Hon.  Joseph  Grinnell. 

Having  never  visited  the  renowned  country,  CAPE  COD,  I  am 
making  my  will  and  otherwise  preparing  for  an  exploring  expedi 
tion  to  that  garden  of  'cuteness.  If  you  look  at  it  upon  the  map, 
you  will  see  that  it  resembles  the  lifted  leg  of  New  England,  in 
the  act  of  giving  the  enemy  a  kick.  Intending  to  venture  out  as 
far  as  Provincetown,  which  is  the  point  of  the  belligerent  toe,  I 
shall  probably  date  my  next  letter  from  that  extremity — mean 
time  remaining,  dear  General, 

Yours,  &c. 


LETTER  FROM  CAPE  COD. 

System  and  Monotony — Booted  Leg  of  Massachusetts — First  Stop  below 
the  Garter — Yarmouth  and  its  Vertebral  Street — Sentiment  on  Cape  Cod 
— Stage-drivers  Plenipotentiary  Vocation — Delicate  Messages  delivered 
in  Public — More  Taste  for  Business  than  Rural  Seclusion — Sameness  and 
Plainness  of  Building — Republican  Equality — 'Cute  Lad — Yanno  the 
Handsome  Chief — Cape  Cod  Poetess — Comparative  Growth  of  Trees  and 
Captains — Boxed  Gardens — Misfortune  of  too  Good  Company — Centena 
rian  Servant  known  as  '•  The  Old  Gentleman" — Man  One  Hundred  and 
Nine  Years  Old,  who  had  never  been  out  of  Temper,  etc.,  etc. 

You  must  leaye  the  railroad  to  know  anything  of  the  character 
of  New  England.  A  wooden  Station-house,  with  "  Gentlemen's 
Room,"  "  Ladies'  Saloon,"  a  clock,  and  a  counter  for  pies  and 
coffee,  is  the  picture  repeated  with  as  little  variety  as  a  string  of 
mile-posts,  from  one  end  of  a  route  to  the  other.  System  and 
punctuality,  such  valuable  and  invariable  characteristics  as  they 
are,  of  rail-roading  in  Yankee-land,  are  accompanied,  as  invaria 
bly,  by  stiff  gravity  and  monotony — the  excitement  of  curiosity, 
which  a  stranger  awakens  as  he  goes,  being  the  only  gleam  of 


THE    RAISED    LEG.  33 

animation  upon  the  meeting-house  physiognomy  of  the  cars. 
With  my  getting  round  the  head  of  Buzzard's  Bay,  therefore, 
my  dear  General — (three  hours  of  rail-roading  from  New  Bedford 
to  Sandwich) — you  would  be  no  more  interested  than  in  a  history 
of  a  man's  travels  while  changing  his  scat  from  the  broad-aisle  to 
the  side-aisle  to  see  more  of.  the  congregation. 

On  the  raised  leg  of  New  England,  (which.  Cape  Cod,  or 
Barnstable  county,  looks  to  be,  on  the  map,)  the  proposed  skip 
canal  from  Buzzard's  Bay  to  Massachusetts  Bay,  would  be  the 
well-placed  garter.  Mr.  Everett,  by-the-way,  very  felicitously 
called  this  peninsular  Cape  the  outstretched  arm  which  Providence 
held  forth,  to  enclose,  with  protecting  welcome,  the  Pilgrims  of 
the  Mayflower  ;  but  I  insist,  notwithstanding,  that  it  resembles 
more  a  raised  leg,  clad  with  the  spurred  boot  of  a  cavalier — 
Falmouth,  at  the  spacious  opening  of  its  top,  the  long  island  off 
Chatham  forming  the  long  rowel  of  its  spur,  and  the  Elizabeth 
cluster,  from  Naushon  to  Kutiyhunk,  furnishing  its  appropriate 
edging  of  lace. 

The  railroad,  extending  only  to  Sandwich,  barely  crosses  the 
line  of  this  proposed  garter  canal.  My  companion  and  guide 
intended  to  lodge  ten  miles,  further  down,  at  Yarmouth.  "We 
found  an  old-fashioned  stage,  waiting  for  passengers  "  bound 
down,"  and,  rejoicing  in  it  as  a  long  missed  and  pleasant  friend, 
I  mounted  to  the  top  for  one  of  the  pleasantest  summer-evening 
rides  that  I  remember.  With  a  full  moon  rising  before  us,  a 
delicious  southern  breeze  laden  with  the  breath  of  sweet-briar  and 
new  hay,  and  a  consequent  mood  rather  sentimental  than  other 
wise,  I  commenced  acquaintance  with  Cape  Cod— a  country,  the 
mention  of  which  does  not  (usually,  at  least,)  call  up  associations 

of  so  tender  a  complexion. 

2* 


34  DRIVER'S    VOCATION. 


We  were  fourteen  passengers,  but  the  carrying  of  us  and  our 
baggage  seemed  to  be  a  secondary  part  of  the  driver's  vocation. 
He  was  apparently  the  agent,  parcel-carrier,  commission-broker, 
apologist,  and  bearer  of  special  intelligence  for  the  whole 
population.  His  hat  was  the  "  way-mail,"  and,  with  his  whip 
and  the  reins  for  four  horses  in  his  hands,  he  uncovered,  and 
transacted  business  constantly  and  expeditiously.  The  presence 
of  fourteen  detained  listeners  was  no  barrier  to  the  delivery  of 
confidential  messages.  We  pulled  up  before  one  of  the  most 
respectable-looking  houses  on  the  road,  and  a  gentleman  came 
out,  evidently  prepared  to  receive  something  he  had  expected. 

"Mr.   B ,"    said  the  driver,"    "told  me   to   tell  yer  he 

could'nt  send  yer  that  money  to-day." 

"  Why  not  ?"  said  the  expectant,  clearly  disappointed. 

"  'Cause  he  had  to  go  to  Court." 

"Wai!"  said  the  gentleman,  putting  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  giving  the  driver  a  sly  look  as  he  turned  on  his  heel,  "  you 
hain't  pocketed  it  yourself,  have  yer  ?" 

"  Thick,  thick  !"  and  along*  we  went  again,  pulling  up,  a  mile 
further  on,  to  receive  a  parcel  from  a  man  in  an  apron. 

"  Seventy-five  cents  to  be  paid  on  that !"  said  the  mechanic, 
holding  out  his  hand  to  receive  from  the  driver  what  his  customer 
was  to  pay  on  delivery — an  advance,  or  loan  on  security,  of 
course,  which  the  driver  handed  over  without  objection. 

Presently  we  were  stopped  by  a  man  with  a  letter  in  his  hand. 
The  driver  was  a  minute  or  two  decyphering  the  address,  and, 
after  some  delay,  to  which  none  of  the  fourteen  'passengers  made 
any  objection,  he  discovered  that  it  was  directed  to  Boston,  and 
he  was  to  drop  it  into  the  office  at  Yarmouth. 

"  Anything  to  pay  on't  ?"  asked  the  man. 


YARMOUTH    ONE    STREET.  35 


"  No  ,  Tluck,  tluck  !"  and  away  we  went  again. 

These,  and  slighter  errands,  made  a  difference  of  perhaps  half 
an  hour  in  our  time  of  arrival — a  tax  upon  transient  passengers 
for  the  benefit  of  regular  customers  on  the  road,  which  is,  no 
doubt,  politic  enough  in  the  stage  proprietor,  but  which,  like 
most  other  arrangements  of  the  Cape,  was  indicative  of  the 
primitive  simplicity  of  old  time. 

Barnstable  and  Yarmouth — once  several  miles  apart — have 
built  up  to  each  other,  and  a  stranger  would  have  no  idea  where 
the  two  towns  divide.  This  is  the  result  of  a  peculiar  fashion 
which  prevails  all  over  the  Cape,  of  building  nowhere  but  on  the 
stage-road,  the  houses  and  gardens  of  these  populous  villages 
being  all  strung,  thus,  upon  one  string.  I  inquired  the  length  of 
the  street,  or  extension  of  contiguous  houses,  through  which  we 
had  come  to  Yarmouth,  and  was  told  it  was  five  miles.  So 
exclusively  is  it  "  the  rage"  to  live  on  this  main  street,  that  the 
land  upon  it  is  worth,  on  an  average,  three  or  four  dollars  a  foot, 
while,  a  hundred  rods  back,  it  could  be  had  for  comparatively 
nothing.  I  may  mention  here,  that,  on  our  way  to  Hyannis  the 
next  morning,  we  came  to  a  most  lovely  fresh  water  lake,  set  in  a 
bowl  of  wooded  hills,  and  offering  the  finest  possible  situations  for 
eleo-ant  rural  residence.  Though  only  a  mile  or  so  from  the 
village  street,  this  beautiful  neighborhood  was  as  unfenced  and 
wild  as  land  on  the  prairies ;  and  of  no  value  for  building  lots,  as 
the  gentleman  told  me  who  was  our  kind  conductor.  In  any 
other  vicinity  to  a  town,  in  the  civilized  world,  it  seems  to  me, 
such  easy  advantages  for  taste  and  charming  surroundings  would 
have  been  eagerly  competed  for,  and  seized  upon  and  improved 
by  the  first  winner  of  a  competency. 

In   the    style    of    building,   along    through    Yarmouth    and 


36  THE    HANDSOME    CHIEF. 


Barnstable,  there  is  a   most   republican  equality.     Usually,  in 
places  of  the  same  size,  the  inhabitants,  as  they  grow  wealthy, 
make  a  corresponding  show  in  their  dwelling-houses.     Here,  there 
is  scarce  one  which  has  any  pretension,  or  could  fairly  be  accused 
of  any  superiority  which  might  awaken  envy.     They  are  mostly 
wooden  farm-houses,  of  one  unvarying  inelegance  of  model,  and 
such  as  could  be  built,  I  was  told,  for  an  average  cost  of  some 
where  within  one  thousand  dollars.     Yet  many  of  the  residents, 
in  these  simple  structures,  are  very  wealthy  men.     The  equality, 
of  which  this  is  a  type,  extends  to  everything.     We  stopped,  for 
example,  (in  our  ride  from  Yarmouth,)  at  the  village  of  Hyannis7 
and,  leaving  our  two  vehicles  at  the  store,  which   served  as  a 
stopping-place,  went  to  a  neighboring  house  to  call  on  some  old 
acquaintances  of  my  fellow-traveller.     As  we  sat  in  the  drawing- 
room,  conversing  with  the  four  or  five  ladies  of  the  family,  a  lad 
of  fifteen,  who  had  been  sent  with  us  by  the  keeper  of  the  livery- 
stable  to  bring  back  his  horse,  walked  in  and  took  a  chair,  with 
the  self-possession  of  the  most  honored  guest.     He  was  a  boy,  by- 
the-way,  to  whom  I  took  a  fancy — "  a  'cute  lad"  worthy  of  Cape 
Cod — and  I  was  indebted  to  him,  as  we  rode  along,  for  valuable 
information.     Among  other  things,  he  pointed  out  to  me  the 
Indian   burial-ground,  where   Y-anno,  (an   Indian  chief  whose 
remarkable  personal  beauty  is  still  remembered,  and  after  whom 
the  village  of  Hyannis  is  named,)  has  his  grave.     A  man  was 
ploughing  in  the  field  of  which  it  made  a  part.     "  Do  you  see  thai 
man  ?"  said  the  boy;  "  well,  he's  got  a  daughter  that  wrote  him 
a  piece  of  poetry  about  givin'  on  her  that  lot  that  the  Indians  are 
buried  in."     He  then  showed  me  the  house  in  which  the  poetess 
lived— all  with  the  air.  however,  of  one  doubtful  whether  or  no 
he  had  apprised  me  of  a  matter  of  any  consequence.     Like  some 


STYLE    OF    HOUSES.  37 


older  people,  he  evidently  had  not  made  up  his  mind  whether  the 
writing  of  poetry  was  indicative  of  a  fool  or  a  prophet.  As  this 
was  the  only  one  of  my  trade  whom  I  heard  of  as  indigenous  to 
the  Cape,  I  was  sorry,  afterwards,  that  I  had  not  called  to  pay 
the  proper  respects  of  professional  "fraternization." 

We  had  left  the  ordinary  stage  route  at  Yarmouth,  and  kept 
along  the  south  shore  of  the  Cape  for  ten  or  fifteen  miles — 
intending  to  take  the  stage  again  at  Harwich.  The  small  village 
of  Hyannis,  which  is  five  miles  south  of  the  usual  line  of  travel, 
is  upon  a  bank  of  sand,  which  affords  only  a  scanty  'hold  to 
vegetation,  and  it  looks  like  a  settlement  of  Socialists,  or  like  the 
ideal  of  Pitcairn's  island — so  all  alike  are  its  houses,  and  so  tidy, 
thrifty,  homely,  and  after  one  pattern,  are  all  the  surroundings 
of  each.  There  seems  to  be  but  one  idea  of  the  structure  of  a 
dwelling — to  have  nothing  superfluous  and  to  paint  the  remainder 
white.  The  garden  fences  are  made  of  close  boards,  to  keep  out 
the  sand  in  windy  weather,  and  every  house  stands  in  a  white  box, 
accordingly.  These  are,  almost  without  exception,  the  residences 
of  the  families  of  seafaring  men,  and  we  were  told  that  we  should 
be  safe  in  calling  any  man  "-Captain"  whom  we  might  meet  in 
Hyannis.  They  raise  better  Captains  than  trees,  here.  The 
stunted  pine,  with  its  bald  roots,  looks  scrofulous  and  pinched, 
and  the  only  shade-free  which  seems  to  thrive  is  the  silver-leaved 
poplar,  of  which  we  saw,  here  and  there  one,  in  the  boxed  up 
gardens.  As  in  Yarmouth,  the  building-lots  are  valuable  on  the 
street, — the  few  feet,  for  a  little  cottage  and  flower  garden, 
costing  four  or  five  hundred  dollars,  while  the  average  cost  of  the. 
houses  in  the  town,  (occupied  many  of  them,  by  comparatively 
wealthy  men)  is  but  six  or  seven  hundred. 

Unfortunately   for    the    interest   of  my   letter,    I    made    this 


38  ARISTOCRACY    REVERSED. 


excursion  in  company  with  a  very  distinguished  man ;  and,  as  the 
inhabitants  turned  out,  everywhere,  to  show  him  attention  and 
accompany  him  from  town  to  town,  I  had  little  or  no  opportunity 
of  seeing  what  some  traveller  calls  "  the  unconscious  natives." 
Wherever  we  chanced  to  be,  at  about  the  dinner  hour,  we  were 
kept  to  dine — losing  time  for  me,  as  our  entertainers  were  of  a 
class  that  is  the  same  all  over  the  world,  and,  delightful  as  was 
their  hospitality,  it  furnished,  of  course,  neither  material  nor 
liberty  of  description.  Among  the  advantages  of  the  attention 
to  my  friend,  of  which  I  thus,  business-wise,  complain,  however, 
I  must  mention  an  introduction  to  a  centenarian,  whom  I  noticed 
that  every  one  called  "  the  old  gentleman,"  though  he  enjoys  a 
celebrity  as  having  been  servant  to  the  father  of  James  Otis  the 
patriot.  It  was  a  curious  confusion  of  dates,  to  hear  a  patriot, 
who  has  gone  down  to  history,  spoken  of,  by  a  living  person,  as 
"  young  Jem" — the  name  by  which  the  old  man  invariably 
designates  James  Otis.  The  "  old  gentleman"  has  a  noble 
physiognomy,  and  is  the  wreck  of  a  powerful  frame.  He  was 
courteous  and  aristocratic  enough,  in  his  expression  and  bearing, 
to  have  been  an  old  Duke, 

I  was  sorry  to  hear,  after  we  left  Yarmouth,  that  I  had  missed 
seeing  a  centenarian  of  that  place,  who  is  certainly  a  curiosity. 
He  is  now  a  hundred  and  nine  years  of  age,  and,  in  his  whole  life, 
was  never  known  to  be  out  of  temper.  He  married  young,  and  his 
wife  died  about  twenty  years  ago,  having  been,  all  her  life,  a 
singularly  irritable  woman  !  He  did  good  service  in  the  war  of 
the  Revolution,  and  has  been  pressed,  at  various  times,  to  apply 
for  the  pension  to  which  he  is  entitled.  He  refused  always,  on 
the  ground  that,  as  he  served  the  time  he  agreed  to,  and  received 
the  pay  they  agreed  to  give  him,  the  Government  owes  him 


FUN  IN  THE  ONE  HUNDREDTH  YEAR.      39 


nothing.  His  children,  living  in  the  town,  are  well  off,  and  wish 
Him  to  end  his  days  with  them  ;  but  he  prefers  his  lodging  in  the 
Poor  House,  declaring  that  he  "  can't  bear  to  think  of  being  a 
trouble  to  any  body,"  and  fairly  earning  his  board  by  "  doing 
chores"  about  the  grounds  and  kitchen.  He  is  still  of  a  most 
playful  turn  of  mind.  A  fellow  pensioner  of  the  Poor  House, 
who  is  eighty  years  old,  was  sitting  with  him,  but  a  few  days 
since,  upon  a  wooden  bench  in  the  yard — the  skirts  of  his  broad- 
skirted  coat  lying  loose  upon  the  seat,  and  the  large  empty  pockets 
temptingly  open.  The  old  humorist  quietly  glided  behind,  during 
their  talk,  and,  from  a  heap  of  loose  stones  near  by,  filled  the 
open  pockets,  without  disturbing  the  owner.  He  then  patted  him 
kindly  on  the  shoulder,  and,  expressing  some  fear  that  he  might 
take  cold,  asked  him  to  walk  into  the  house.  At  the  vain  efforts 
of  his  pinned  down  friend,  to  rise  with  the  weight  in  his  coat-tails, 
he  laughed  as  heartily  as  a  boy  of  sixteen.  He  is  said  to  have  a 
fine  physiognomy,  and  to  have  been  an  active  man  and  a  good 
citizen,  without  displaying  any  particular  talent. 

I   must   defer,   to   another   letter,   the   remaining   and   more 
interesting  portion  of  my  trip  down  the  Cape. 

Yours,  &c. 


LETTER  FROM  CAPE  COD, 

Down  the  Ankle  of  Cape  Cod  to  Heel  and  Instep — Amputated  Limb  of  a 
Town — Look  of  Thrift — Contentment  on  Barren  Sand — Primitive  part  of 
the  Cape,  unreached  by  Steam  and  Rails — Ladies'  Polkas — Statistics  of 
Mackerel  Fishery— Three  Prominent  Features  of  the  Cape,  Grave- Yards, 
School-Houses  and  One  other — Praiseworthy  Simplicity  of  Public  Taste 
—Partial  Defence  of  "  Dandies"—  The  u  Blue-Fish"— Class  of  Beauty  oil 
the  Cape — Comparative  Vegetation  and  Humanity,  etc.,  etc. 

AT  the  close  of  my  last  letter,  I  believe,  I  was  bound  to  take 
tea  on  the  heel  of  Cape  Cod,  and,  thence,  to  cross  over  and  sleep 
on  tlie  instep.  We  stopped  upon  the  way — between  the  two  veies 
of  Bass  River  and  Herring  River — to  visit  one  of  the  "  packing 
wharves,"  to  which  the  mackerel  fishermen  bring  in  their  cargoes 
for  inspection  and  barrelling.  These  long  projections  of  frame 
work  into  the  sea,  of  which  there  are  several  along  the  Southern 
beach  of  the  Cape,  have  a  strangely  amputated  look — a  busy 
wharf  having  usually  a  busy  city  attached  to  it,  and  such  a  limb 
of  a  town  on  a  desolate  shore  doing  as  much  violence  to  association 
as  to  see  an  arm  there  without  the  remainder  of  the  man. 

In  the  mackerel  fishery  is  engaged  a  very  large  proportion  of 
the  inhabitants  of  Cape  Cod,  and  this,  and  other  navigation  are 


STATISTICS    OF    FISHING.  41 


enriching  that  part  of  the  country,  at  present,  at  an  almost 
Californian  rate — at  least,  if  the  usual  indications  of  renewed 
prosperity  are  at  all  to  be  trusted.  The  little  fleets  of  fishing 
vessels  which  are  constantly  visible  in  the  distance,  following  the 
"  schools"  of  their  prey,  are  beautiful  objects,  looking  like  flocks 
of  snow-white  birds  painted  upon  the  blue  tablet  of  the  sea. 
They  are,  each,  a  small  republic,  composed  of  ten  or  twelve  men, 
with  proportionate  shares  in  the  enterprise,  and  their  voyages 
last  from  two  to  six  weeks  The  fish  are  assorted,  at  the  packing 
wharves,  into  three  qualities,  inspected  and  sent  to  market. 
At  the  head  of  each  of  these  landing-places  is  a  "  store"  for 
sundries,  where  the  fishermen  may  find  the  few  goods  and 
groceries  that  he  requires,  and,  all  around — warehouses,  pyramids 
of  new  barrels,  workmen  and  all — had  a  look  (it  struck  me)  of 
most  especial  thrift  and  contentment. 

And  I  must  put  in  here,  my  dear  song-writer,  a  paragraph 
which  you  poetical  and  un-practical  people  may  skip  if  you  like — 
statistics  of  mackerel  fishery  which  I  took  some  pains  to  inquire 
out,  and  by  which  persons  of  other  vocations  can  make  that 
comparison  of  outlay  and  profit,  so  useful  to  a  proper  appreciation 
of  human  allotment. 

The  small  vessels  in  which  fishing  is  most  successfully  pursued 
are  from  50  to  100  tons  burthen,  and  cost  from  $2000  to  $4000. 
The  expenses  and  fittings-out  are  divided  into  two  classes  of 
articles,  which  are  technically  called  the  "  Great  Generals"  and 
the  "  Small  Generals" — the  former  consisting  of  salt,  barrels, 
expense  of  packing,  and  Skipper's  commission  on  the  proceeds  ; 
the  latter  consisting  of  provisions  for  the  crew  and  fishing-tackle. 
The  owners  furnish  vessel,  sails,  rigging,  etc.,  and  draw  25  to 
30  per  cent,  of  the  proceeds,  after  the  "  Great  Generals"  are 


42  MACKEREL    FISHERY. 


deducted.  The  crew  receive  the  remainder,  and  divide  among 
themselves,  according  to  the  quantity  of  fish  caught  by  each.  I 
forgot,  by-the-way,  to  mention  the  Skipper's  premium  for 
commanding  the  vessel,  which  is  2  k  per  cent,  on  the  proceeds. 
And  another  item  :—  whoever  furnishes  the  "  Great  Generals" 
receives  one-eighth  of  the  gross  proceeds,  and  it  is  sometimes 
done  by  the  owner  of  the  vessel,  sometimes  jointly  by  the  crew. 

The  average  quantity  of  mackerel  taken  by  single  vessels  in 
a  season,  is  600  barrels,  and  they  usually  bring  $6  per  barrel. 
Let  us  put  it  into  a  shapely  business  statement  :— 

Gross  proceeds,        ........       $3600,00 

Deduct  '•  Great  Generals  :»— 

600  bushels  of  salt  at  30  cents,  .  .  .  $180 
600  empty  barrels  and  re-packing,  .  .  .600 
Skippers  commission,  .....  90  ..  $870,00 


$2730.00 
Owner  of  vessel's  share,  25  per  cent.,  ...  532  50 


Crew  of  twelve  men,  average  to  each,        .        ...        . 
Less  share  of  i;  Small  Generals,"  ... 

About  $20  per  month,     ......  $120  C^ 

Sometimes  (I  must  add),  the  crews  are  part  owners  of  the 
vessels,  and,  according  to  their  standard  of  wealth,  when  a  man 
has  acquired  $4000,  he  has  an  independent  fortune—  the  cost  of 
living,  for  a  fisherman's  family  on  the  Cape,  not  necessarily 
exceeding  $200  per  annum. 

There  is  bitter  complaint  of  the   Government,  among  those 


COD    FISHERY.  43 


interested  in  the  mackerel  fishery — (a  very  formidable  body  of 
votcrs) — so  palpably  injured  is  this  large  and  hardy  class  by  the 
operation  of  the  ad  valorem  duty  on  foreign  mackerel.  In  the 
British  provinces,  where  this  fish  is  taken  by  a  seine,  instead  of 
by  hook  and  line  as  in  this  country,  they  can  afford  to  put  the 
value  as  low  as  two  to  three  dollars  per  barrel,  making  the  duty 
from  forty  to  sixty  cents.  The  American  fisherman  furnishes  a 
better  article,  but  to  enable  him  to  compete  at  all  with  his  foreign 
competitor,  there  should  be  a  specific  duty  of  so  much  per  barrel. 
The  cod  fishery,  by  which  the  tough  sons  of  the  Cape  are  best 
known,  is  so  incomparable  a  school  for  such  sailors  as  the  country 
relies  on  in  time  of  danger,  that  the  Government  gives  a  bounty 
to  those  who  engage  in  it.  This  premium  on  an  industry  which 
is  an  education  in  skill  and  hardihood — the  exposure  to  fogs,  ice 
and  difficult  navigation  being  greater  than  in  any  other  pursuit — 
amounts  to  $300  given  to  the  owners"  and  crew  of  each  vessel, 
three-eighths  to  the  owners  and  five-eighths  to  the  crew. 

The  barren  sand  and  starved  vegetation  of  this  whole  line  of 
coast  naturally  suggested  a  query  as  to  the  contentment  of  resi 
dence  here,  but,  in  answer  to  various  inquiries,  I  found  that  a 
Cape  man's  proverbial  ambition  is  to  have  a  comfortable  home 
where  he  was  born ;  that  the  Cape  girls  have  no  wish  to  live  any 
where  else  ;  and  that  increased  means  only  confirm  them  in  the 
fulfilment  of  these  indigenous  preferences.  Just  now,  certainly, 
there  are  more  new  houses  going  up  on  the  Cape  roads  than  in 
any  section  of  the  country  which  I  have  travelled  through,  and, 
as  to  poverty,  it  seems  unknown,  from  the  Cape's  toe  to  its  knee- 
pan.  In  Provincetown,  where  the  population  is  between  two 
and  three  thousand,  there  are  but  two  paupers  and  these  are  dis 
abled  and  decrepid  fishermen.  If  green  and  fertile  Ireland, 


44  FASHION    ON    THE    CAPE. 


(which  is  the  first  land  eastward,)  could  only  close  up  to  the 
Cape,  what  a  picture  of  double  contrast  would  be  presented,  and 
what  a  neat  Gordian  knot  it  would  offer — wealthy  and  intelligent 
bleakness,  and  ignorance  and  poverty-stricken  fertility — for  poli 
tical  economists  to  unravel ! 

We  left,  at  Harwich,  the  relays  of  kind  friends  who  had  passed 
us  along  in  their  vehicles  on  the  Southern  shore,  and  resumed  the 
stage  conveyance  on  the  regular  highway.  From  this  point  to 
Chatham  (along  the  ankle  of  the  leg),  we  saw,  I  presume,  a  fair 
segment  of  the  primitive  state  of  things — unaltered,  I  mean,  by 
the  new-fangleries  of  the  march  of  improvement.  The  two  ends 
of  Barnstable  County  are  in  a  state  of  transition — the  upper  end 
having  a  railroad  running  into  it,  and  the  lower  end  connected 
with  Boston  by  a  daily  steamer — and,  for  old-fashioned  Cape  Cod 
manners  and  habits,  the  traveller  will  soon  be  obliged  to  confine 
his  observations  to  this  sandy  betweenity.  Trifles  sometimes, 
show,  like  sea-weed,  the  reach  of  a  resistless  tide,  and  it  amused 
me  to  notice  that  the  article  of  lady's  dress  called  a  visile  or  polka , 
(a  brown  over-jacket  that  has  been,  of  late,  a  popular  rage,)  was 
universal  as  far  down  as  Yarmouth,  scattering  through  Hyannis, 
unseen  through  Chatham,  Eastham,  Wellfleet  and  Truro,  and 
suddenly  universal  again  where  the  steamer  touches — at  Pro- 
vincctown.  How  soon  these  two  converging  tides  will  polka  the 
whole  Cape,  is  a  nice  and  suggestive  question  of  progress. 

The  houses  in  this  intermediate  region,  are  of  a  -most  curiously 
inelegant  plainness — the  roof  all  painted  red,  the  sides  of  rusty 
white  if  painted  tit  all,  and  the  model  invariably  the  same,  and 
such  as  a  carpenter  would  build  who  thought  only  of  the  cheapest 
shelter.  Ornament  of  any  kind  seems  as  unknown  as  beggary. 
The  portion  of  a  house,- which  in  every  foreign  country  is  decently 


SCHOOL-HOUSES,  &c.  45 


concealed, — and  unobserved  access  to  which,  is  contrived,  at  the 
humblest  cottage  of  Europe,  in  some  way  or  other, — is  here  the 
most  conspicuous  and  unsheltered  of  the  appendages  to  a  dwell 
ing-house — an  insensibility  to  delicacy,  the  more  strange,  as  the 
females  of  this  part  of  the  country  are  proverbially  and  fastidi 
ously  modest.  The  two  next  most  conspicuous  things  are  the 
school-house  and  the  grave-yard — life's  beginning  and  its  ending 
— the  latter  a  tree-less  collection  of  white  stones  occupying,  every 
where,  the  summit  of  the  highest  ground.  In  one  instance  where 
it  stood  over  a  family  vault,  the  white  stone,  with  its  black  fence, 
was  the  only  object  in  the  yard  of  a  farm-house,  and  placed 
exactly  between  the  front  door  and  the  public  road.  The  absence 
of  taste  which  accompanies  the  Cape  Cod  disrelish  of  superfluities, 
is  a  thing  to  be  regretted,  we  think,  though  there  are  evils,  of 
course,  which  follow  close  after  refinement,  as  corruption  after 
ripeness  in  most  fruits  of  this  wicked  world.  One  of  our  ablest 
contemporaries,  a  Boston  editor,  writing  a  letter  recently  from 
the  Cape,  approaches  the  same  quality  of  Cape  character  by  a 
little  different  road.  He  says  : — 

tc  The  amusements  here  must  be  few  compared  with  other  places  which 
we  have  visited,  or  must  be  peculiar  in  their  character.  There  is  no  oppor 
tunity  for  persons  of  a  sentimental  turn  to  take  a  promenade  of  a  leisure 
afternoon  to  some  romantic  glen  or  grove,  or  a  stroll  by  moonlight  through 
some  secluded  path  to  a  romantic  spot,  and  enjoy  the  beauties  of  nature. 
The  only  promenade  is  the  plank  sidewalk  which  I  have  already  mentioned 
as  extending  through  the  town  by  the  water's  edge,  about  which  there  is 
very  little  seclusion,  poetry  or  romance.  A  '  pleasant  ride,'  for  obvious  rea 
sons,  is  an  operation  of  still  greater  difficulty.  And  this  may  be  one  reason, 
why  the  Provincetown  folks  are  generally  a  matter-of-fact  people,  possess 
ing  among  them  no  crack-brained  poets  or  dreaming  philosophers." 

The  same  writer  alludes  coinplimentarily,  again,  to  the  severe 


46  RESULTS    OF    DANDIES. 


simplicity  of  the  Cape,  and  we  must  quote  the  passage  to  explain 
why  our  assent  to  his  virtuous  sentiments  is  with  a  slight  reserva 
tion.  He  declares : 

"  Loafers,  .dandies,  and  such  like  characters,  are  not  tolerated  on  Cape  Cod. 
And  it  is  owing  to  this  feeling  that  Provincetown,  although  situated  on  the 
most  barren  section  of  the  Cape,  notwithstanding  the  falling  off  in  the  salt 
business,  once  the  mainstay  of  the  place,  continues  in  a  flourishing  condition, 
and  is  increasing  in  business,  wealth,  and  population." 

Now,  that  dandies  prevent  the  increase  of  business  and  wealthy 
is  possible  enough,  and  we  admire,  with  our  brother  editor,  the 
simplicity  by  which  they  are  "  not  tolerated  on  Cape  Cod  ;"  but 
the  poor  dandies  have  enough  to  bear,  we  think,  without  the  ad 
ditional  charge  with  which  our  contemporary  winds  up  his  period 
— that  they  prevent  the  increase  of  u  population. ," 

I  must  make  up  for  finding  fault  with  my  friend's  logic,  by 
quoting,  from  his  letter,  a  passage  of  his  valuable  practical  infor 
mation  : 

"  Cod,  haddock,  large  flounders,  stripped  bass,  mackerel,  and  a  species  of 
flat  fish,  called  a  turbot,  may  be  taken  in  abundance  but  a  short  distance  from 
the  shore.  The  blue  fish  also  is  found  in  the  bay  this  season,  in  greater 
number  than  has  ever  previously  been  known,  much  to  the  annoyance  of  the 
fishermen,  as  other  kinds  of  fish  eschew  his  company  and  seek  less  fierce  and 
blustering  companions  elsewhere.  Indeed  I  heard  a  similar  complaint  in 
other  towns  on  the  Cape,  particularly  Chatham,  where  they  told  me  that 
the  blue  fish  had  driven  all  other  fish  off  the  coast.  This  fish,  which  is  not 
so  large  as  a  middling  sized  cod,  which  it  somewhat  resembles  in  shape,  is 
remarkably  strong,  fearless,  active,  and  voracious— a  veritable  pirate  of  the 
seas— and  cannot  be  conquered  without  a  severe  struggle.  He  is  taken  when 
the  boat  is  under  sail,  with  the  line  dragging  astern — in  the  same  way  in 
which  mackerel  were  formerly  caught  on  the  coast,  and  the  king-fish,  bar- 
racooter  and  other  game  fish  are  taken  in  the  West  Indies.  When  hooked, 
he  strives  gallantly  for  life — and  is  apt  to  snap  off  an  ordinary  mackerel  line 


CAPE    COD    STATURE.  47 


by  his  muscular  efforts  and  sudden  jerks,  or  cut  it  off  with  his  sharp  teeth. 
When  caught  in  a  seine — which  is  often  the  case— he  makes  sad  work 
in  the  midst  of  his  more  quiet  and  philosophical  companions  in  mis 
fortune—often  attacking  the  net  which  imprisons  him,  in  a  truly  savage 
manner— hiting  and  tearing  it  to  pieces,  and  escaping  from  durance  vile 
through  the  woful  rent  which  he  has  made.  This  fish  is  excellent  eating  if 
cooked  soon  after  he  is  taken,  but  is  of  little  comparative  value  to  salt  or 
pickle ;  it  is  therefore  no  wonder  that  he  is  seldom  spoken  of  by  fishermen  in 
terms  of  affection  or  respect." 

There  is  one  class  of  unusual  personal  beauty  on  Cape  Cod, 
and  I  pointed  out  striking  instances  of  it  to  my  companion,  from 
one  end  of  our  route  to  the  other.  There  scarce  seemed  to  Jbe 
an  individual,  of  the  time  of  life  I  refer  to,  who  was  not  a  fine 
study  for  a  painter — I  mean,  the. man  of  seventy  and  upwards. 
I  never  saw  so  many  handsome  old  men  in  any  country  in  the 
world.  And  it  is  easily  accounted  for,  in  their  descent  and  pur 
suits — the  stern  and  manly  Pilgrim  type  confirmed  and  perpetu 
ated  by  their  lives  of  peril  and  hardy  exercise,  while  the  visits  to 
foreign  ports,  and  absence  from  village  divindlification,  has  kept 
the  physiognomy  liberal  and  open.  One  part  of  it  is  less  easily 
accounted  for — the  largeness  of  frame  in  these  old  men — for  they 
seem  like  a  race  of  Anaks  in  comparison  with  modern  New 
Yorkers,  and  yet  sailors  are  usually  small  men.  There  is  a 
chance,  perhaps,  to  get  rid  of  the  difficulty  by  Professor  Gruyot's 
theory,  that  vegetable  and  human  life  are  not  permitted  by  Na 
ture  to  be  luxuriant  together ;  for,  by  this  law,  in  proportion  as 
the  Cape  were  barren  and  un tropical  in  its  vegetation,  its  human 
product  would  necessarily  be  more  luxuriant — smaller  trees, 
larger  Captains. 

The  process  of  descent  by  which  this  rougher  branch  of  the 


48  ANALYSIS    OF    A    YANKEE. 


Pilgrim  family  have  preserved  the  strength  of  the  paternal  out 
line,  would  be  curious  to  trace  through  all  its  influences  ;  and 
some  future  Macaulay  will  give  us  the  analysis  of  this  and  the 
other  more  refined  and  less  massive  handings  down  from  the 
Mayflower.  An  admirable  passage,  bearing  upon  this  matter, 
occurs  to  me  while  I  write — a  part  of  a  Preface  to  "  The  Bige- 
low  Papers"  written  by  Russell  Lowell — and  I  will  take  it  out  of 
that  book,  which  was  smothered  in  eccentricity,  and  preserve  it, 
here,  like  a,foie  gras  in  an  earthern  pot : — 

"  New  England  was  not  so  much  the  colony  of  a  mother  country,  as  a 
Hagar  driven  forth  into  the  wilderness.  The  little  self-exiled  band  which 
caftie  hither  in  1620,  came,  not  to  seek  gold,  but  to  found  a  democracy. 
They  came  that  they  might  have  the  privilege  to  work  and  pray,  to  sit 
upon  hard  benches  and  listen  to  painful  preachers  as  long  as  they  would,  yea, 
even  unto  thirty-seventhly,  if  the  spirit  so  willed  it.  And  surely  if  the 
Greek  might  boast  his  Thermopylae,  where  three  hundred  fell  in  resisting 
the  Persian,  we  may  well  be  proud  of  our  Plymouth  Rock,  where  a  handful 
of  men,  women  and  children  not  merely  faced,  but  vanquished,  winter, 
famine,  the  wilderness  and  the  yet  more  invincible  storge  that  drew  them 
back  to  the  green  island  far  away.  These  found  no  lotus  growing  upon  the 
surly  shore,  the  taste  of  which  could  make  them  forget  their  little  native 
Ithaca ;  nor  were  they  so  wanting  to  themselves  in  faith  as  to  burn  their 
ship,  but  could  see  the  fair  west  wind  belly  the  homeward  sail>  and  then 
turn  unrepining  to  grapple  with  the  terrible  Unknown. 

"  As  Want  was  the  prime  foe  these  hardy  exodists  had  to  fortress  them 
selves  against,  so  it  is  little  wonder  if  that  traditional  feud  is  long  in  wear 
ing  out  of  the  stock.  The  wounds  of  the  old  warfare  were  long  ahealing 
and  an  east  wind  of  hard  times  puts  a  new  ache  in  every  one  of  them. 
Thrift  was  the  first  lesson  in  their  horn-book,  pointed  out,  letter  after  letter, 
by  the  lean  finger  of  the  hard  school-master,  Necessity.  Neither  were 
those  plump,  rosy-gilled  Englishmen  that  came  hither,  but  a  hard-faced, 
atrabillious,  earnest-eyed  race,  stiff  from  long  wrestling  with  the  Lord  in 
prayer,  and  who  had  taught  Satan  to  dread  the  new  Puritan  hug.  Add  two 


DIFFERENCE    FROM    JOHN    BULL.  49 

hundred  years'  influence  of  soil,  climate,  and  exposure,  with  its  necessary 
result  of  idiosyncracies,  and  we  have  the  present  Yankee,  full  of  expedients, 
half-master  of  all  trades,  inventive  in  all  but  the  beautiful,  full  of  shifts,  not  yet 
capable  of  comfort,  armed  at  all  points  against  the  old  enemy  Hunger,  lon- 
ganimous,  good  at  patching,  not  so  careful  for  what  is  best  as  for  what  will 
e?o,  with  a  clasp  to  his  purse  and  a  button  to  his  pocket,  not  skilled  to  build 
against  Time,  as  in  old  countries,  but  against  sore-pressing  Need,  accustomed 
to  move  the  world  with  no  pou  sto  but  his  own  two  feet,  and  no  lever  but 
his  own  long  forecast.  A  strange  hybrid,  indeed,  did  circumstance  beget, 
here  in  the  New  World,  upon  the  old  Puritan  stock,  and  the  earth  never  be 
fore  saw  such  mystic-practicalism,  such  niggard-geniality,  such  calculating- 
fanaticism,  such  cast-iron-enthusiasm,  such  unwilling-humor,  such  close- 
fisted  generosity.  This  new  Grceculus  csuriens  will  make  a  living  out  of 
anything.  He  will  invent  new  trades  as  well  as  tools.  His  brain  is  his 
capital,  and  he  will  get  education  at  all  risks.  Put  him  on  Juan  Fernandez, 
and  he  would  make  a  spelling-book  first,  and  a  salt-pan  afterward.  Yet, 
after  all,  thin,  speculative  Jonathan  is  more  like  the  Englishman  of  two 
centuries  ago  than  John  Bull  himself  is.  He  has  lost  somewhat  in  solidity, 
has  become  fluent  and  adaptable,  but  more  of  the  original  ground- work  of 
character  remains.  He  feels  more  at  home  with  Fulke  Greville,  Herbert 
of  Cherbury,  Quarles,  George  Herbert  and  Browne,  than  with  his  modern 
English  cousins.  He  is  nearer  than  John,  by  at  least  a  hundred  years,  to 
Naseby,  Marston  Moor,  Worcester,  and  the  time  when,  if  ever,  there  were 
true  Englishmen.  But  John  Bull  has  suffered  the  idea  of  the  Invisible  to 
be  very  much  fattened  out  of  him.  Jonathan  is  conscious  still  that  he  lives 
in  the  world  of  the  Unseen  as  well  as  of  the  Seen.  To  move  John,  you 
must  make  your  fulcrum  of  solid  beef  and  pudding ;  an  abstract  idea  will  do 
for  Jonathan." 

My  letter  makes  slow  progress  toward  the  "  jura  ping-off  place" 

at  the  end  of  the  Cape,  dear  Morris,  but,  though  a  friend  said  to 

me  at  starting  that  I  should  "  find  nothing  to  write  about  on  Cape 

Cod,"  you  see  how  suggestive,  after  all,  are  its  clam-shells  and 

3 


5Q  ON    THE    HEEL. 

gand.  Consider  me  at  Chatham  for  the  present-on  the  heel  of 
the  hardy  leg  of  Massachusetts— for  here  I  must  stop,  short  of 
my  purpose  when  I  began,  but  short  of  being  tiresome,  I  hope,  as 

well. 

Yours,  &c. 


LETTER  FROM  CAPE  COD, 

Lagging  Pen— Sketch  of  Cape  Cod  Landladies— Relative  Consequence  of 
Landlords — Luxury  peculiar  to  Public  Houses  in  this  Part  of  the  Country 
—Old  friend  of  "  Morris  and  Willis"— Strap  of  the  Cape  Spur— Land  like 
"  the  Downs  of  England — Sea-farming  and  Land-farming — Solitary  Inn — 
Double  Sleep— Hollow  of  Everett's  Cape  u  Arm"— Pear  tree  over  200  years 
old— Native  Accent  and  Emphasis — Overworked  Women— Contrivance 
to  Keep  the  Soil  from  blowing  away — Bridge  of  Winds— Adaptability  of 
Apple-trees — Features  of  this  Line  of  Towns — Curious  Attachment  to 
.  Native  Soil — The  Venice  of  New  England,  etc.,  etc. 

As  you  see,  dear  Morris,  my  pen  follows  me  on  my  journey 
like  a  tired  dog,  but  it  will  overtake  me  in  time.  Lag  as  it  will, 
it  is  a  rascal  that  sticks  to  its  master — (I  am  sorry  to  sayj — and 
if  I  were  to  go  bed  in  heaven,  without  it,  I  think,  I  should  see  its 
tail  wag  with  the  first  movement  of  my  hand  in  the  morning. 
"  Love  me,  love  my  dog,"  however,  for,  like  fairy  drudges  who 
treat  their  inevitables  "  like  a  dog,"  I  prefer  to  have  the  abusing 
of  him  all  to  myself. 

In  travelling  on  Cape  Cod,  one  remembers  where  he  takes  tea, 
.for  the  teapot  and  the  landlady  are  inseparable,  and  the  landla 
dies  are  pretty  women,  from  one  end  of  the  Cape  to  the  other. 


52  CAPE    COD    LANDLADIES. 


The  landlord,  I  noticed,  is  only  "  first  mate"  in  this  maritime 
country,  and  his  wife  is  the  indisputable  Captain.  As  is  the  case 
all  over  the  surface  of  the  globe,  where  woman  has  the  whole  re 
sponsibility,  she  acquits  herself  admirably,  and  I  remember  no 
country  where  the  landlady's  duties  and  powers  are  so  judiciously 
allotted  and  so  well  discharged  as  on  Cape  Cod — a  fact  particu 
larly  noticeable  in  America,  where  everybody  does  much  more  and 
considerably  less  than  he  ought  to.  My  companion  ('Member  of 
Congress  from  this  District J,  having  the  "best  front  chamm-be?" 
as  a  matter  of  course,  I  was  generally  lodged  in  the  rear,  within 
cognizance  of  all  the  machinery  of  housekeeping — the  trade  with 
the  pedlar,  the  talk  with  the  butcher,  the  petting  of  the  child,  the 
hurrying  of  "  them  gals,"  and  the  general  supervisory  orders, 
from  the  gridiron  in  the  kitchen  to  the  remotest  pillow-case  up 
stairs,  coming  within  unavoidable  earshot — and  my  admiration  of 
the  landladyhood  of  Barnstable  County,  I  freely  own,  increased 
with  my  knowledge  of  it.  But  for  the  view  out  of  the  window,  I 
should  not  always  have  been  sure  that  the  vigorous  handler  of 
tongue  and  broom  whom  I  saw  and  heard  the  moment  before  the 
bell  rang,  was  the  same  gentle  proposer  of  "  green  or  black" 
whom  I  looked  at  over  my  shoulder  the  moment  after  ;  but  there 
she  was — the  same,  save  what  changes  were  made,  in  manner  and 
habiliment,  somewhere  between  back-stoop  and  parlor.  The  hair, 
evidently  was  dressed  in  the  morning  for  all  day  ;  and,  on  some 
habitual  nail,  probably,  hung  the  cover-all  polka,  slipped  on  with 
the  other  tone  of  the  voice,  "  in  no  time  ;"  and,  by  either,  the 
dullest  stranger  would  know  the  mJstress  from  her  servant.  To 
the  former,  you  looked,  only  when  your  "  cup  was  out,"  or  for 
whortleberries  and  milk.  To  "  pass  the  potatoes"  you  must  turn 
to  the  girl  with  no  collar  on.  It  might  have-  been  only  a  curious 


NEW    HOTEL    LUXURY.  53 

coincidence,  or  it  may  be  a  professional  attitude,  but,  when  not 
waiting  on  guests,  the  landladies,  everywhere  on  the  -  Cape,  pre 
sented  one  picture— seated  thoughtfully  at  the  side-table  with  the 
cheek  resting  on  the  thumb  and  two  fingers.  In  one  or  two  cases 
I  noticed  that  it  seemed  to  be  a  favorite  time,  when  new-comers 
were  taking  tea,  to  receive  calls  from  the  young  ladies  in  the 
neighborhood— the  visitors,  whom  I  had  seen  radiating  toward  the 
house  from  various  directions,  coming  in  without  their  bonnets, 
like  members  of  the  family,  and  departing,  bonneted,  when  the 
meal  was  over.  With  the  gentlemen  about,  who  were  "  regular 
boarders,"  I  observed  that  the  landlady  was,  (as  they  express  ex 
cellence  in  BostonJ  "  A.  No.  1,"  gay,  social,  and,  in  manner, 
something  between  a  sister  and  a  great  belle  ;  and,  by  the  way  in 
which  my  companion's  advances  to  conversation  were  met,  I  was 
satisfied  that  sociability  with  the  landlady  is  an  understood  thing 
— the  public  houses  on  the  Cape  being  thus  provided  with  a  lux 
ury,  (a  lady  for  a  stranger  to  talk  to,;  which  would  be  a  desirable 
addition,  even  to  the  omni-dreamings-of  at  the  incomparable 
Astor.* 

In  the  stage  proprietor  who  was  to  furnish  us  our  vehicle  to 

*  As  Ireland  is  the  next  country  eastward,  perhaps  it  may  be  apposite  to 
quote  a  passage  from  Thackeray's  travels,  descriptive  of  Irish  innkeepers 
and  their  wives — the  contrast  very  much  in  favor  of  the  kind  civility  of  the 
same  class  in  Barns  table  County,  while  at  the  same  time,  our  own  hold  a 
much  higher  relative  position  in  social  rank.  He  says  :  "I  saw  only  three 
landlords  of  inns  in  all  Ireland.  I  believe  these  gentlemen  commonly,  and 
very  naturally,  prefer  riding  with  the  hounds,  or  other  sports,  to  attendance 
on  their  guests ;  and  the  landladies  prefer  to  play  the  piano,  or  have  a  game 
of  cards  in  the  parlor ;  for  who  can  expect  a  lady  to  be  troubling  herself  with 
vulgar  chance  customers,  or  looking  after  Molly  in  the  bedrooms  or  Tim  in 
the  cellar !» 


54  CAPE    COD    PLOUGH. 


cross  to  Orleans,  I  found  one  of  our  old  "  Mirror"  parish,  who 
"  knew  us  both  like  a  book" — all  the  apartments  of  his  memory 
papered  with  the  editorials  of  those  days  of  quarto — and  he  very 
kindly  took  the  place  of  his  driver,  and  put  us  over  the  road  with 
his  own  good  whip  and  better  company.  We  followed  a  line,  that, 
on  the  booted  leg  of  the  Cape,  would  be  defined  by  the  strap  of 
the  spur,  and  a  beautiful  evening  drive  it  was,  with  half  a  dozen 
small  lakes  on  the  road  and  a  constant  alternation  of  hill  and  val 
ley — though  we  were  probably  indebted  to  a  glowing  twilight,  and 
its  train  of  stars  and  fragrance,  for  some  modification  of  sand  and 
barrenness.  Over  this  ten  miles  of  hill  and  water,  scarce  anyone 
had  ever  thought  it  worth  while  to  put  up  a  fence,  and,  like  the 
open  Downs  of  Sussex  in  England,  more  beautiful  ground  for  a 
free  gallop  could  scarcely  be  found  on  the  wild  prairie.  There 
are  few  or  no  farms,  from  Chatham  across  to  Orleans.  Here  and 
there  stands  a  dwelling-house,  but  its  owner  farms  the  more  fer 
tile  Atlantic,  where  his  plough  runs  easier  even  than  through  the 
sand,  and  his  crops  sow  their  own  seed  without  troubling  him.*' 

*  The  analogy  between  land-farming  and  sea-farming  is  hinted  at  by 
quaint  old  Fuller,  who,  in  one  of  his  sermons,  thus  delivers  himself :—"  Why 
doth  not  the  water  recover  his  right  over  the  earth,  being  higher  in  Nature  ? 
Whence  came  the  salt,  and  who  first  boiled  it,  which  made  so  much  brine  ? 
When  the  winds  are  not  only  wild  in  a  storm,  but  even  stark  mad  in  a  hur 
ricane,  who  is  it  that  restores  them  again  to  their  wits  and  brings  them 
asleep  in  a  calm  ?  Who  made  the  mighty  whales,  who  swim  in  a  sea  of 
water,  and  have  a  sea  of  oil  swimming  in  them  ?  Who  first  taught  the 
water  to  imitate  the  creatures  on  land,  so  that  the  sea  is  the  stable  of  horse- 
fishes,  the  stall  of  kine-fishes,  the  sty  of  hog- fishes,  the  kennel  of  dog-fishes,  and 
in  all  things  the  sea  the  ape  of  the  land  1  When  grows  the  ambergrease  in  the 
sea,  which  is  not  so  hard  to  be  found  where  it  is,  as  to  know  what  it  is  ? 
Was  not  God  the  first  Shipwright?  and  all  vessels  on  the  water  descended 
from  the  loins,  or  rather  ribs,  of  Noah's  ark  ?  or  else  who  durst  be  so  bold 


SOPORIFIC    AIR.  55 


The  Inn  at  Orleans  reminded  me  of  that  solitary  albergo  half 
way  over  the  Pontine  Marshes — the  inside  of  the  house  a  refuge 
from  the  barren  loneliness  without — though  the  solidifying  salt 
air  of  the  Cape  was  different  enough  from  the  nervous  drowsiness 
of  the  malaria.  I  shall  remember  Orleans  by  its  dispensation  of 
sleep,  for  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  two  nights  had  been  laid  over  me 
like  two  blankets.  Cape  air,  indeed,  day  and  night,  struck  me  as 
having  a  touch  of  "  poppy  or  rnaudragora,"  and,  please  lay  it  to 
the  climate  if  my  letter  weighs  on  your  eyelids. 

With  a  charming  pair  of  horses  and  a  most  particularly  native 
Cape  driver,  we  started,  after  our  breakfast  at  Orleans,  to  skirt 
the  full  petticoat  which  Massachusetts  Bay  drops  southward  from 
the  projecting  head  of  Cape  Ann.  The  thirty  miles  to  the  point 
of  the  Cape  was  one  day's  work.  An  hour  or  so  on  our  way  we 
stopped  to  see  the  blown-down  trunk  of  a  pear-tree  brought  over 
from  England  by  Governor  Prince,  which  had  borne  fruit  for  two 
hundred  and  twenty  years.  It  lay  in  an  orchard,  at  the  rear  of 
a  house  as  old  as  itself,  and  the  present  tenant  sells  its  branches 
for  relics.  The  direction  of  our  driver,  when  we  stopped  before 
the  door,  may  perhaps  be  usefully  recorded  as  a  guide  to  travel 
lers,  and  I  will  try  to  spell  it  strictly  after  his  unmitigated  Cape 
pronunciation  : — "  Git  r-^-ight  &-out,  and  step  r-^-ight  r-&-ound  ; 
it's  the  back  p-^-irt  of  the  h-a-ouse."  The  letter  a,  in  the  na 
tive  dialect,  seems  to  fill  a  place  like  the  "  bread  at  discretion"  in 
a  French  bill  of  fare  ;  and  I  was  struck  also  with  an  adroit  way 

with  a  few  crooked  boards  nailed  together,  a  stick  standing  upright,  and  a 
rag  tied  to  it,  to  adventure  into  the  ocean  ?  What  loadstone  first  touched  the 
loadstone  ?  or  how  first  fell  it  in  love  with  the  north,  rather  affecting  that 
cold  climate  than  the  pleasant  east,  or  fruitful  south  or  west  ?  How  comes 
that  stone  to  know  more  than  men,  and  find  the  way  to  the  land  in  a  mist  ?'' 


56  CONTENTMENT    HERE. 


they  have,  of  giving  point  to  a  remark  by  emphasizing  unexpected 
words.  This  same  driver,  for  instance,  when  we  commented  up 
on  the  worn  and  overworked  look  of  the  middle-aged  females 
whom  we  met  upon  the  road,  replied,  (and  his  voice  sounded  as 
if  it  came  up  through  his  nose  and  out  at  his  eyes  J  "  y-a-es  !  they 
must  work  OR  die!'' 

Around  most  of  the  dwellings,  along  on  this  shore  of  the  Cape, 
there  is  neither  tree  nor  shrub,  and  this  gives  to  their  houses  an 
out-of-doors  look  that  is  singularly  cheerless.  One  ship  on  an 
ocean  horizon  could  not  look  more  lonely.  Even  the  greenness 
of  the  poor  grass  around  the  cottage  is  partly  lost  to  them,  for 
they  cover  it  thinly  with  dead  brush,  literally  to  keep  the  soil  from 
blowing  away — so  light  and  thin  is  the  surface  of  loam  upon  this 
peninsula  of  sand. 

Lying  between  the  Atlantic  and  the  stormy  Bay  so  well  known 
as  the  nose  of  the  bellows  of  Newfoundland,  it  is  probably  but  a 
bridge  of  wind,  for  th-9  greater  portion  of  the  year.  A  few  apple- 
trees,  which  we  saw  in  one  place,  told  the  story — the  branches  all 
growing  horizontally  from  near  the  root,  and  sticking  so  close  to 
the 'ground  that  a  sheep  could  scarcely  pass  under  them. 

We  ploughed  sand,  all  along  through  Eastham,  Wellfleet,  and 
Truro,  seeing  but  the  same  scanty  herbage,  houses  few  and  far 
between,  flat-chested  and  round-backed  women  and  noble-looking 
old  men,  and  wondering,  (I,  at  least,)  at  the  wisdom  of  Provi 
dence  in  furnishing  the  human  heart  with  reasons  for  abiding  in 
the  earth's  most  unattractive  regions.  "  All  for  the  best,"  of 
course,  but  one  marvels  to  remember,  at  the  same  time,  that  the 
most  fertile  and  beautiful  land  in  the  world,  on  the  Delaware  and 
Susquehannah,  equi-distant  from  New  York  and  easier  of  access, 
can  be  bought  for  half  the  price  of  these  acres  of  Sahara. 


BREVITY.  57 


The  remainder  of  the  Cape,  from  Truro  to  Provincetown,  is  the 
Venice  of  New  England — as  unlike  anything  else  as  the  city  of 
gondolas  is  unlike  the  other  capitals  of  Italy — and  deserves  the 
other  end  of  a  letter.  In  the  brevity  of  this,  too,  I  take  a  certain 
vacation  liberty,  which  I  need,  on  the  venerable  and  time-worn 
principle,  that 

"  All  work  and  no  play, 
Makes  Jack  a  dull  boy." 

Yours.  &c. 


LETTER  FROM  THE  END  OF  CAPE  COD, 

Descriptive  of  the  Las.t  Few  Miles  of   Cape  Cod,  and  the  Town  at  its 
Extremity. 

AT  the  point  where  I  resume  my  sketch  of  Cape  Cod,  dear 
Morris,  I  could  not  properly  date  from  "terra  firma."  The 
sand  hills,  which  compose  the  last  few  miles  of  the  way  to 
Provincetown,  are  perpetually  changing  shape  and  place,  and — 
solid  enough  though  they  are,  to  be  represented  in  Congress — the 
ten-mile  extremity  of  the  Cape  is  subject  to  a  "  ground  swell," 
for  the  sea-sickness  of  which  even  Congress  has  thought  it  worth 
while  to  prescribe.  I  must  define  this  to  you  more  fully,  for, 
literally  true  as  it  is,  it  sounds  very  much  like  an  attempt  at  being 
figurative. 

Whoever  travels  between  Truro  and  Provincetown,  though  he 
goes  up  hill  and  down  dale  continually,  runs  his  wheel  over  the 
virgin  sand,  for,  even  the  stage-coach  that  plies  daily  backward 
and  forward,  leaves  no  track  that  lasts  longer  than  an  hour. 
The  republican  wind,  though  blowing  ever  so  lightly,  commences 


CURIOUS    STAGE    ROAD.  59 


the  levelling  of  an  inequality  as  soon  as  raised,  and  the  obedient 
particles  of  light  sand,  by  a  granular  progression  scarcely 
perceptible,  are  pushed  back  into  the  hole  they  were  lifted  from, 
or  distributed  equally  over  the  surrounding  surface.  Most  of  the 
way,  you  are  out  of  sight  of  the  sea,  and  with  this,  and  the 
constant  undulation,  there  is  little  or  no  resemblance  to  a  beach. 
Indeed  it  is  like  nothing  with  which  we  are  familiar ;  for,  down 
in  the  bottom  of  one  of  those  sandy  bowls,  with  not  a  blade  of 
grass  visible,  no  track  or  object  except  what  you  brought  with 
you,  a  near  and  spotless  horizon  of  glittering  sand,  and  the  blue 
sky  in  one  unbroken  vault  above,  it  seems  like  being  nested  in 
one  of  the  nebulae  of  a  star — a  mere  cup  of  a  world,  an  acre 
large,  and  still  innocent  of  vegetation.  The  swell  of  a  heavy  sea, 
suddenly  arrested  and  turned  to  sand,  in  a  series  of  contiguous 
bowls  and  mountlets — before  a  blade  of  grass  had  found  time  to 
germinate,  or  the  feather  of  a  bird  to  drop  and  speck  the  smooth 
surface — would  be  like  it,  in  shape  and  superficies.  The  form, 
of  this  sand-ocean,  changes  perpetually.  Our  driver  had 
"  driven  stage"  for  a  year,  over  the  route  between  Truro  and 
Provincetown,  and,  every  day,  he  had  picked  a  new  track,  finding 
hills  and  hollows  in  new  places,  often  losing  his  way  with  the 
blinding  of  the  flying  sand  in  a  high  wind,  and  often  obliged  to 
call  on  his  passengers  to  "  dig  out" — a  couple  of  shovels  being 
part  of  his  regular  harness  ^  It  is  difficult  to  believe,  while 
putting  down  the  foot  in  this  apparently  never  trodden  waste, 
that,  but  a  few  miles,  either  way,  there  is  a  town  of  two  thousand 
inhabitants. 

Nature,  that  never  made  a  face  without  somebody  to  love  it, 
has  provided  "  something  green"  to  vegetate  in  every  soil,  and 
there  is  an  herbage  called  the  beach-grass  which  will  grow 


60  DECEPTIVE    LAND-HO. 


nowhere  but  in  the  sand — where  nothing  else  will.  The  alarming 
variations  of  shore,  on  the  inner  side  of  Cape  Cod,  with  the 
drifting  movements  of  the  sand,  aroused,  not  long  since,  an 
apprehension  that  the  valuable  bays  and  harbors  within  the 
"  protecting  arm,"  might  gradually  diminish.  It  is  an  important 
quality,  in  a  coast  or  a  Congressional  District,  that  you  should 
"know  where  to  find  it,"  and  Congress  was  applied  to,  for  an 
appropriation  to  make  the  "  protecting  arm"  hold  still.  Three 
thousand  dollars  were  given,  and — pile-driving,  wall-building  and 
other  expedients  having  been  found,  by  experiment,  both  too 
expensive  and  ineffectual — it  was  suggested  that  the  planting  and 
sowing  of  leach-grass  over  these  moveable  hills,  would  best 
answer  the  purpose.  Like  love,  which  binds  with  spider's  webs 
that  grow  into  cables,  the  slender  filament  of  this  poorest  and 
slightest  ot  Nature's  productions,  holds  imprisoned  that  which 
had  defied  walls  and  stockades,  and,  from  the  partial  trials  on  the 
most  exposed  points,  it  is  evident  that  Barnstable  County  can  be 
made  to  permanently  justify  its  name — offering,  to  storm-driven 
ships,  a  shelter  as  stable  as  a  barn. 

At  the  first  sight  of  Provincetown,  over  the  sand-swells,  one 
feels  like  crying  out  "land  ho  !" — but,  with  nearer  approxima 
tion,  the  yielding  element,  over  which  one  has  been  surging 
and  sinking,  acquires  neither  steadiness  nor  consistency.  The 
first  houses  of  the  principal  street  stretch  out  to  meet  you,  like 
the  end  of  a  wharf,  with  sand  all  around  them,  and  sand  still 
beyond,  and,  by  a  continuation  of  deep  sand,  you  heave  alongside 
of  a  plank  side-walk,  and  warp  up  to  the  hotel— your  horses,  that 
have  toiled  at  a  dead  pull,  down  hill  as  well  as  up,  rejoicing  at  a 
"  make-/atf"  in  which  there  is  no  more  motion. 

Provineetown  is  famous  for  importing  its  gardens— the  box  of 


PECULIAR    SAND-GAIT.  61 


soil  in  the  centre  of  which  a  house  stands,  like  a  cottage  in  one 
of  the  floating  gardens  of  Holland,  being  brought  over  in  sloop- 
loads  from  terra-firma.  These  little  earths,  of  which  each  owner 
was,  in  a  manner,  the  maker,  (who,  by  invoice,  "  saw  that  it  was 
good,")  are  very*  neatly  planted  with  shrubs  and  flowers,  and, 
standing  close  together,  in  an  irregular  line,  with  the  sand  up  to 
their  close-board  fences,  they  resemble  a  long  raft  which  might  be 
unmoored  and  set  adrift  at  any  moment.  This,  to  me,  gave  a 
sort  of  Venetian  aspect  to  this  town  built  upon  loose  sand — the 
same  impression  of  a  city  afloat  having  been  produced  by  those 
palaces  of  Venice,  set  in  streets  of  water. 

At  the  hitherward  end  of  Provincetown,  which  is  exposed  to 
the  winds  and  drifts  of  the  sand-ocean  I  have  described,  the 
inhabitants  seemed  to  be  prepared  to  "  dig  out"  at  very  short 
warning,  for,  from  every  house  there  runs  to  the  water-side  an 
embankment,  such  as  is  laid  for  a  railroad,  and,  on  the  top,  is  laid 
a  line  of  planks  with  a  wheel-barrow  and  shovels.  The  high 
sand  ridge,  which,  like  a  long  hill,  backs  up  the  town,  is  dug 
into,  like  caves,  at  the  rear  of  each  dwelling,  but  it  looks  as  if  it 
might  all  be  set  in  motion  by  a  "  snorter."  At  the  other  end  of 
the  town,  the  houses  spread  into  two  or  more  streets,  and,  in 
here  and  there  a  corner,  it  approaches  the  look  of  an  ordinary 
town.  One  plank  sidewalk,  (three  miles  long,  if  I  remember 
rightly,)  runs  the  whole  extent  of  the  place,  and  on  this  you  are 
very  sure  to  see  everybody  stirring,  for,  to  walk  anywhere  else  is 
to  wade.  I  was  told  that  the  Cape  people  have  a  peculiar  step 
for  the  sand,  however,  laying  down  the  flat  of  the  whole  foot  and 
bending  the  knee,  and  not  the  ankle,  to  advance.  The  utility  of 
larger  feet  must  of  course  make  them  a  beauty  in  so  practical  a 
place  as  Provincetown  ;  but,  as  well  as  I  could  see,  under  the 


62  TWO    PRETTY    GIRLS. 


petticoats  I  chanced  to  meet,  the  feet  of  the  ladies  were  of  the 
usual  dimensions.  As  a  careful  and  observant  traveller,  I  must 
record,  apropos  of  ladies,  that,  among  those  who  were  promena 
ding  "  before  tea,"  on  the  plank  sidewalk,  I  noticed  two  who 
were  remarkably  pretty.  There  was  an  air  of  tastefulness  and 
gayety  among  them  which  I  had  not  observed  on  the  other  parts 
of  the  Cape,  and  I  presume  I  saw  a  fair  representation  of  the 
belles  of  the  "  jumping-off  place" — the  liveliness  that  was  given 
to  it  by  the  evident  general  habit  of  promenading  on  this  only 
trottoir,  being  a  very  pleasant  opportunity  of  observation  for  the 
stranger. 

The  time  for  closing  the  mail,  at  the  place  where  I  write,  has 
overtaken  me  unexpectedly,  and  I  will  simply  enclose  to  you  one 
or  two  interesting  extracts  from  another  description  of  this  place — 
(by  Mr.  SLEEPER  of  Boston) — and  reserve  what  else  I  may  have 
to  say  of  Provincetown  for  the  commencement  of  another  letter. 

Yours,  &c. 

"  Provincetown  is  about  fifty  miles  from  Boston  by  water,  and  one 
hundred  and  ten  by  land.  The  distance  to  Cape  Ann,  across  the  bay,  is 
about  fifty  miles.  Its  appearance,  on  entering  the  harbor,  is  particularly 
striking.  Indeed,  it  resembles  no  other  town  I  have  seen  ;  and  in  this,  as  in 
some  other  respects,  it  may  be  regarded  as  unique.  The  town  consists  of 
some  six  or  eight  hundred  wooden  buildings,  many  of  them  neatly  painted 
which  are  chiefly  arranged  on  a  street  near  the  sea-shore,  that  extends  in  a 
slightly  curved  line,  upwards  of  two  miles.  The  sea-shore  is  lined  with 
boats,  hauled  up  to  high- water  mark,  or  lying  on  the  flats ;  and  many  small 
vessels  are  at  anchor  in  the  harbor,  or  alongside  the  wharves.  The  towers 
and  steeples  of  the  several  churches  gracefully  rise  above  the  houses ;  and  in 
the  rear  of  the  houses  are  a  chain  of  abrupt  sand-hills  extending  the  whole 
length  of  the  town,  occasionally  broken  by  valleys,  which  reach  some 
distance  inland.  Some  of  these  hills  are  covered  with  vegetation  in  the 
shape  of  whortleberry  and  bayberry  bushes,  but  the  greatest  portion  of  them 


SAND    SOIL,  &c.  63 


throw  aside  all  deception,  and  honestly  acknowledge  that  they  are  composed 
of  sand— granules  of  light-colored  quartz.  The  loftiest  of  these  hills  proba- 
bly  exceeds  one  hundred  feet ;  and  from  the  summit  of  one  of  them  in  the 
rear  of  the  centre  of  the  town,  on  which  the  remains  of  a  fortification  which 
must  have  commanded  the  harbor  is  still  to  be  seen,  a  most  picturesque 
panoramic  view  is  obtained,  which  well  compensates  a  person  for  a  much 
more  arduous  task  than  ascending  the  height. 

"  The  principal  street  is  narrow — inconveniently  so— being  not  more  than 
twenty-five  feet  in  width,  and  this  includes  a  sidewalk  of  plank,  for  pedes 
trians,  extending  the  whole  length  of  the  town.  On  the  north  side,  fronting 
the  harbor,  the  dwelling-houses,  comfortable-looking  buildings,  one  or  two 
stories  high,  are  erected  without  much  regard  to  order  or  regularity ;  while 
on  the  opposite  side  are  stores,  warehouses,  and  entrances  to  the  wharves 
and  the  beach.  In  the  construction  of  the  houses  more  regard  is  manifested 
for  comfort  than  for  show. 

u  The  soil  about  Provincetown  should  not  be  regarded  as  altogether  bar 
ren as  being  composed  entirely  of  sand.  Some  of  the  hills  are  covered 

with  a  loose  coat  of  mould,  and  the  low  lands  and  valleys,  off  from  the  shore, 
are  densely  clothed  with  shrubs,  and  in  some  places  dwarf  pines  and  scrub 
oaks  abound.  Indeed  it  is  an  historical  fact,  that  a  considerable  portion  of 
this  part  of  the  Cape  was  formerly  covered  with  trees,  which  have  nearly 
all  been  cut  down  long  since  for  fuel.  Some  of  the  bogs  or  swamps  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  town  have  been  "  reclaimed,"  and  this  without  any  consid 
erable  labor ;  and  the  rich  soil  thus  discovered— a  sort  of  vegetable  mould, 
five  or  six  feet  in  depth— is  found  to  produce  heavy  crops  of  grass,  corn,  po 
tatoes,  &c.,  which  being  always  in  demand,  will  richly  compensate  the  enter 
prising  cultivator  for  his  extra  labor  and  expense,  in  converting  an  unsightly 
bog-hole  into  a  fertile  field  or  flourishing  garden.  Many  acres  of  land  might 
in  this  way  be  made  to  produce  good  crops  of  corn,  grass  and  vegetables,  and 
as  the  good  work  is  now  fairly  commenced,  we  hope  in  a  few  years  to  see  a 
sufficient  quantity  of  these  agricultural  productions  raised  in  the  vicinity  of 
Provincetown,  for  the  supply  of  the  inhabitants,  and  a  portion,  at  least,  of 
the  many  fishing  and  other  vessels  which  enter  the  harbor. 

"  There  being  so  few  trees  on  this  part  of  the  Cape,  of  course  fuel  must  be 
scarce.    No  peat  has  been  found  in  this  vicinity,  and  anthracite  coal  has  not 


64  POPULATION. 


been  yet  introduced  into  general  use.  It  doubtless  will  ere  long  become  the 
principal  material  for  fuel,  as  wood,  which  must  be  brought  from  abroad, 
and  is  chiefly  imported  from  Maine,  becomes  more  scarce  and  expensive. 

"  The  number  of  inhabitants  in  Provincetown.  according  to  the  census  in 
1840.  was  1740;  it  is  now,  probably,  rising  2000.  The  business  carried  on 
here  is  principally  fishing  and  manufacturing  salt  by  solar  evaporation. 
Cape  Cod  is  famous  for  the  salt  business.  It  was  commenced  in  many 
towns  on  the  Cape  some  seventy  or  eighty  years  ago,  and  under  the  protect 
ing  care  of  the  General  Government,  proved  for  many  years  a  certain  source 
of  wealth.  Investments  in  salt  works  were  always  considered  safe,  and  the 
stock  was  always  above  par.  It  was  never  necessary  to  borrow  money  at 
two  per  cent,  a  month  to  keep  them  in  operation.  The  reduction  of  the 
duty  on  sa*lt,  however,  has  in  later  years  proved  injurious  to  this  business, 
which  now  yields  but  a  slender  profit.  The  works  are  in  most  cases  still 
kept  in  operation,  but  it  is  not  considered  worth  while  to  repair  them,  when 
injured  by  accident,  or  worn  out  by  time.  It  will  not  be  many  years  before 
the  salt  works,  which  now  cover  acres  in  every  town  on  the  Cape,  will  dis 
appear.  The  appearance  of  the  numerous  windmills  which  are  seen  along 
the  whole  extent  of  the  main  street  in  Provincetown,  pumping  the  water  at 
high  tide,  for  the  supply  of  the  salt  works,  is  one  of  those  objects  which  are 
likely  to  arrest  the  attention  of  a  stranger  to  Cape  Cod  on  visiting  that 
place. 

"  In  Provincetown  there  are  two  very  good  hotels,  where  strangers  can  be 
accommodated  on  reasonable  terms — one  is  kept  by  Mr.  Fuller,  and  the  other, 
the  Pilgrim  House,  by  Mr,  GiiFord,  whom  I  found  to  be  a  very  accommo 
dating  host,  desirous  of  contributing  to  the  comfort  of  his  guests,  and  ready 
to  comply  with  their  wishes  and  gratify  their  requests  in  every  particular — 
providing  they  do  not  call  for  intoxicating  drinks !  Sailing  packets  ply  be 
tween  Provincetown  and  Boston  three  or  four  times  a  week,  and  I  trust  that 
the  arrangement  of  running  a  steamboat  every  other  day  will  be  persevered 
in,  and  meet  with  the  success  the  enterprise  deserves." 


LETTER  FROM  CAPE  COD, 

Noteworthy  peculiarity  of  Cape  Cod — Effects  of  Sand  on  the  Female  Figure 
—Palm  of  the  "  Protecting  Arm" — Pokerish  Ride  through  Foliage— At- 
lanticity  of  unfenced  Wilderness — Webster's  Walk  and  Study  of  Music — 
Outside  Man  in  Lat.  41° — Athletic  Fishing — Good  Eating  at  Gifford's 
Hotel — American  "Turbot" — Wagon  Passage  over  the  Bottom  of  the 
Harbor — Why  there  are  no  Secrets  in  Provincetown — Physiognomy  of 
the  People — Steamer  to  Boston,  etc.,  etc. 

IN  one  peculiarity,  Cape  Cod  presents  a  direct  contrast  to  any 
other  portion  of  our  country  : — The  houses  and  their  surround 
ings  seem  of  an  unsuitable  inferiority  of  style,  to  those  who  live 
in  them.  In  New  York,  as  every  body  has  remarked,  there  is 
nothing  more  common  than  a  house  by  which  the  proprietor  is 
dwarfed,  if  seen  coming  out  of  the  door  ;  and,  all  over  the  United 
States,  there  is  great  chance  of  a  feeling  of  disappointment  on 
seeing  a  rich  man,  if  you  have,  unluckily,  put  up  your  scaffolding 
for  an  idea  of  him,  by  first  seeing  his  house.  Few  dwellings  on 
the  Cape  cost  over  one  thousand  dollars,  yet  there  are  many 
wealthy  men  who  live  in  houses  of  this  cost — men,  too,  whose 
families  are  highly  educated,  and  whose  sons  and  daughters  visit 

-*  0" 

*  A 


66  SAND    INJURY    TO    THE    BUST. 


and  marry  in  the  best  circles  of  society  in  Boston  and  New 
York. 

Whether  the  sandy  soil,  which  seems  so  unfavorable  to  osten 
tation,  is  also  the  enemy  which  the  climate  seems  to  contain,  as 
well,  for  the  proportions  of  the  female  bust,  I  can  scarce  venture 
to  say  ;  but  flatness  of  chest  in  the  forms  of  the  feminine  popula 
tion  of  Cape  Cod,  is  curiously  universal.  Those  to  whom  I  spoke 
on  the  subject,  attributed  it  partly  to  the  fact  that  the  mothers  of 
most  of'  them  had  been  obliged,  in  the  absence  of  husbands  and 
sons  at  sea,  to  do  much  of  the  labor  of  the  farm,  and  all  super 
fluities  had  of  course  been  worked  into  muscle.  This  is  some 
what  verified  by  the  manly  robustness  of  the  well-limbed  sons 
of  these  Spartan  mothers,  but  still  it  is  unfortunate  that  the 
daughters,  (as  far  as  I  could  judge  by  their  arms  and  shoulders,) 
seem  to  have  inherited  the  loss  without  the  elsewhere  equivalent. 
One  notices  the  same  falling  off  in  the  women  of  the  deserts  of 
Asia,  however,  and  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  arid  sand, 
which  denies  juices  to  the  rose  and  lily,  is  the  niggard  refuser  of 
what  nurture  the  atmosphere  may  contain  for  the  completed  out 
lines  of  beauty. 

The  end  of  the  Cape,  which  you  see  spread  like  a  hand,  upon 
the  map,  is  hollowed  like  a  palm.  This  concavity  is  about  three 
miles  across,  and  has  one  or  two  fresh-water  ponds  in  it,  and  a 
growth  of  bushes  and  stunted  trees.  We  drove  across  this,  at 
sunrise  on  the  day  after  our  arrival,  the  broad  wheels  of  our 
Provincetown  wagon  running  noiselessly  on  the  sand,  and  the 
only  thing  audible  being  the  whirr  of  the  bushes  which  swept  the 
spokes  and  our  shoulders  as  we  went  through.  We  had  a  fast 
tandem  of  black  Narragansett  ponies,  and,  as  the  foliage  nearly 
met  over  the  track  before  us,  and  we  could  see  no  road,  and  felt 


ATLANTIC    OF    SAND.  67 


none,  the  swift  rush  through  the  dividing  bushes  had,  somehow, 
rather  a  pokerish  effect.  It  was  before  breakfast,  or  I  dare  say, 
I  should  have  thought  of  something  it  was  like,  in  the  ^-break 
fast  world  of  imagination. 

This  bushy  waste,  of  three  miles  square,  with  a  populous  town 
on  its  border,  is,  strangely  enough,  unenclosed  and  unappro 
priated,  though  the  law  gives  to  any  one  the  acres  he  is  the  first 
to  fence  in.  On  the  street  of  Provincetown,  they  pay  three  dol 
lars  a  foot  for  a  building  lot,  and,  an  eighth  of  a  mile  back,  they 
may  have  acres  for  only  the  cost  of  fencing, — yet  no  one  cares 
for  what  might  (with  merely  laying  plank  paths  through  {lie  high 
bushes,)  be  turned  into  "grounds,"  that  would  at  least  be  a 
relief  from  the  bare  beach.  The  local  ideas  of  enclosure  are  pro 
bably  formed,  from  the  deck  of  a  vessel,  and,  if  they  can  get  thirty 
feet  square  for  a  house,  they  doubtless  look  on  all  the  space 
around  as  a  sandy  continuation  of  the  unfence-able  Atlantic. 
For  my  own  part,  (agriculture  aside,)  I  wish  the  rest  of  mankind 
were  as  unappropriative,-  and  the  rest  of  the  out-of-town  world  as 
common  property. 

The  object  of  our  sunrise  excursion  was  to  see  the  beach  at 
Race  Point,  the  extremest  end  of  the  Cape,  and  three  miles  be 
yond  Provincetown — a  favorite  resort  of  Webster's,  we  were  told, 
and  where,  with  his  gufi  on  his  shoulder,  he  is  very  fond  of  a 
morning  of  sportsman  idleness.  The  monotone  of  the  measured 
surf  is  "  thunderingly  fine,"  on  this  noble  floor  of  sand,  and  it 
would  be  easy  to  imagine  that  it  was  here  the  great  statesman 
took  the  key-note  of  his  tide-like  diapasons  of  eloquence.  It 
sounded  as  his  eye  looks  and  as  his  thoughts  read.  The  lonely 
extremity  of  this  far-out  point  is  a  fine  place  for  a  feeling  of 
separation  from  crowds — the  boundlessness  of  the  ocean  on  one 


68  A    CAPE   DISH. 


hand,  and  the  large-enough-ness  of  Massachusetts  Bay  on  the 
other — and  I  pleased  myself  with  getting  as  far  into  the  Atlantic 
as  the  "  thus  far  and  no  farther"  of  the  water-line,  and  calling  up 
a  "realizing  sense,"  (at  the  expense  of  a  wet  foot,)  that  I  was 
the  outside  man  of  you  all,  for  the  space  of  a  minute.  One  likes 
a  nibble  at  distinction,  now  and  then. 

They  have  an  athletic  way  of  bass-catching,  here,  which  would 
please  me  better  than  sitting  on  a  low  seat  all  day,  as  fishermen 
do,  curled  up  like  a  scared  earwig,  and  bobbing  at  a  line.  They 
stand  on  the  beach  and  heave  out  the  baited  sinker  as  far  as  their 
strengtli  will  permit,  and  then  haul  in,  dragging  a  powerful  fish 
if  the  throw  was  a  good  one.  This  must  be  the  best  of  exercise 
for  chest  and  limbs,  and  the  footing  on  the  smooth  sand  is,  of 
course,  pleasanter  than  a  seat  on  the  wet  thwart  of  a  boat.  I 
forget  whether  you  are  fond  of  fishing  for  anything  smaller  than 
subscribers,  my  dear  Morris  ? 

We  came  back  at  a  round  pace  through  the  bayberry  bushes, 
and  found  the  best  of  Cape  breakfasts  awaiting  us,  a  fried  fish, 
which  they  call  a  turbot,  commending  itself  to  my  friend's  taste 
as  a  novelty  of  great  delicacy  and  sweetness.  This  is  not  the 
English  turbot,  of  course.  It  is  a  flat  fish,  taken  with  spearing, 
and  seems  to  have  something  the  relation  to  a  flounder  which  a 
canvass-back  has  to  a  common  duck.  They  are  not  sent  away 
from  the  Cape,  and  you  must  go  there  to  eat  them. 

There  is  no  wharf  running  to  deep  water  at  this  place,  and, 
chancing  upon  low  tide  for  our  time  of  departure,  we  were  obliged 
to  drive  over  the  muddy  bottom  of  the  harbor  in  a  wagon,  and,  at 
horse-belly  depth,  take  a  row  boat  for  the  steamer.  The  tide, 
here,  rises  from  twelve  to  sixteen  feet,  and  Provincetown,  this 
"  gem  of  the  sea,"  is  of  course,  half  the  time,  set  in  a  broad 


MORTALITY    AMONG    SAILORS. 


periphery  of  mud.  The  wind  had  been  blowing  hard  all  night, 
and  our  small  boat  beginning  gave  one  of  the  ladies  a  premoni 
tion  of  a  sea-sick  passage  to  Boston.  I  had  rather  a  sprinkly 
seat  in  the  bow,  but,  as  we  bobbed  up  and  down,  I  had  a  good 
backward  look  at  the  town,  which,  with  the  ascent  of  mud  in  the 
foreground,  looked  almost  set  on  a  hill.  I  hope  to  see  Province- 
town  again.  It  is  that  delightful  thing — a  peculiar  place.  The 
inhabitants  looked  hearty  and  honest,  and  the  girls  looked  merry. 
They  keep  each  other  in  order,  I  hear,  by  the  aid  of  the  plank 
sidewalk — for  there  can,  of  course,  be  no  secrets,  where  there  is 
but  one  accountable  path  in  the  whole  neighborhood.  Everybody 
at  Provincetown  knows  every  time  everybody  goes  out,  and  every 
time  anybody  comes  in.  This  might  abridge  freedom  in  towns 
of  differently  composed  population,  but  men  who  are  two-thirds 
of  the  time  seeing  the  world  elsewhere,  are  kept  liberal  and  un- 
provincial,  and  the  close  quarters  of  the  town  only  bind  them 
into  a  family  with  their  neighbors.  I  have  chanced  upon  the  fol 
lowing  statistic,  by-the-way,  as  to  the  dangers  to  life  which  these 
hardy  people  incur,  and  it  is  worth  recording  : — 

"  It  is  stated  on  the  authority  of  a  sermon  delivered  by  Rev.  Dr.  Vinton, 
that,  from  tables  actually  and  carefully  compiled,  it  is  ascertained  that  three- 
fifths  of  those  who  follow  the  sea  die  by  shipwreck !  This  is  a  large,  and 
we  should  say,  extravagant  estimate  ;  if  correct,  however,  it  shows  a  degree 
of  mortality  among  seamen,  of  which  we  had  no  previous  conception.  It  is 
added  that  the  average  of  deaths,  annually,  among  this  class,  is  eighteen 
thousand ;  and  that  in  one  winter  alone,  twenty-five  hundred  perished  by 
shipwreck  on  the  coast  of  New  England." 

This,  which  I  found  in  a  very  pleasant  book  called  "  Notes  on 
the  Sea-shore,"  is  followed  by  some  valuable  information,  as  to 
the  preparation  of  the  dishes  for  which  Cape  Cod  is  most  famous. 
The  author  mentions  that  Daniel  Webster  is  (in  propria  persona) 


. 
70  TO    COOK    A    CHOWDER. 


the  allowed  best  cook  of  a  chowder  in  all  New  England,  and  then 
proceeds  with  what  I  give  you  as  a  legitimate  belonging  to  any 
faithful  chronicle  of  the  place  I  am  describing  : — 

"  A  Fish  Chowder  is  a  simple  thing  to  make.  For  a  family  of  twelve  lo 
fifteen  persons,  all  you  have  to  do  is  this : — In  the  first  place,  catch  your  fish 
— as  Mrs.  Glass  would  say — either  with  a  silver  or  some  other  kind  of  a 
hook ;  a  codfish,  not  a  haddock,  weighing  ten  or  twelve  pounds.  There  is 
more  nutriment  in  the  former  than  in  the  latter.  Have  it  well  cleaned  by 
your  fishmonger,  (keeping  the  skin  on,)  and  cut  into  slices  of  an  inch  and  a 
half  in  thickness — preserving  the  head,  which  is  the  best  part  of  it  for  a 
chowder.  Take  a  pound  and  a  half  of  clear  or  fat  pork,  and  cut  that  into 
thin  slices ;  do  the  same  wTith  ten  or  twelve  middling-sized  potatoes.  Then 
make  your  chowder,  thus :— Take  the  largest  pot  you  have  in  the  house,  if  it 
be  not.  ' as  large  as  all  out-doors; 'try  out  the  pork  first,  and  then  take  it  out 
of  the  pot,  leaving  in  the  drippings.  Put  three  pints  of  water  with  the 
drippings  ;  then  a  layer  of  fish,  so  as  to  cover  as  much  of  the  surface  of  the 
pot  as  possible  ;  next,  a  layer  of  potatoes ;  then  put  in  two  table-spoonsful  of 
salt,  and  a  tea-spoonful  of  pepper ;  then,  again,  the  pork,  another  layer  of 
fish,  what  potatoes  may  be  left,  and  fill  the  pot  up  with  water,  so  as  to  com 
pletely  cover  the  whole.  .Put  the  pot  over  a  good  fire,  and  let  the  chowder 
boil  twenty-five  minutes.  When  this  is  done,  put  in  a  quart  of  sweet  milk, 
if  you  have  it  handy,  and  ten  or  a  dozen  small  hard  crackers,  split.  Let  the 
whole  boil  five  minutes  longer — your  chowder  is  then  ready  for  the  table, 
and  an  excellent  one  it  will  be.  Let  this  direction  be  strictly  followed,  and 
every  man  and  even  woman  can  make  their  own  chowders.  Long  expe 
rience  enables  me  to  say  this,  without  pretending  to  be  a  "  cook's  oracle.'* 
There  is  no  mistake  about  it.  An  onion  or  two  may  be  used,  where  people 
have  a  taste  for  that  unsavory  vegetable ;  but  our  New  England  ladies,  those 
of  Connecticut  perhaps  excepted,  although  extravagantly  fond  of  onions,  do 
not  like  to  have  their  male  friends  approach  them  too  closely,  when  they 
have  been  partaking  of  the  "  unclean  root,"  and  their  breaths  are  impreg 
nated  with  its  flavor." 

"  With  regard  to  clam  chowders,  the  process  is  very  different,  but  very  sim 
ple.     Procure  a  bucket  of  clams  and  have  them  opened :  then  have  the  skin 


TO    COOK    EELS.  71 


taken  from  them,  the  black  part  of  their  heads  cut  off,  and  put  them  into 
clean  water.  Next  proceed  to  make  your  chowder.  Take  half  a  pound  of 
fat  pork,  cut  it  into  small  thin  pieces,  and  try  it  out.  Then  put  into  the  pot 
(leaving  the  pork  and  drippings  in)  about  a  dozen  potatoes,  sliced  thin,  some 
salt  and  pepper,  and  add  half  a  gallon'of  water.  Let  the  whole  boil  twenty 
minutes,  and  while  boiling  put  in  the  clams,  a  pint  of  milk,  and  a  dozen  hard 
crackers,  split.  Then  take  off  your  pot,  let  it  stand  a  few  minutes,  and  your 
chowder  is  ready  to  put  into  the  tureen.  This  is  the  way  Mrs.  Tower 
makes  her  excellent  chowders.  Clams  should  never  be  boiled  in  a  chowder 
more  than  five  minutes :  three  is  enough,  if  you  wish  to  have  them  tender. 
If  they  are  boiled  longer  than  five  minutes  they  become  tough  and  indigesti 
ble  as  a  piece  of  India  rubber.  Let  even  an  Irish  lady-cook  practise  upon 
this  direction  for  making  chowders,  and  our  country  will  be  safe !  In  sea 
soning  chowders  it  is  always  best  to  err  on  the  safe  side — to  come  "  tardy 
off,"  rather  than  overdo  the  matter.  Too  much  seasoning  is  offensive  to 
many  people,  the  ladies  especially. 

"  Eels — the  way  to  cook  them. — I  have  a  great  mind  to  enlarge  upon  this 
subject,  but  will  not  at  this  time.  I  will  only  remark  that  the  eel  is  a  much 
abused  and  much  despised  fish ;  and  yet,  when  properly  cooked,  it  is  as  sweet 
as  any  that  swims.  Many,  from  ignorance,  cut  eels  up  and  put  them  into 
the  frying-pan  without  parboiling  them :  of  course  they  are  rank  and  dis 
agree  with  the  stomach.  They  should  be  cut  up,  and  then  put  into  scalding 
hot  water  for  five  minutes,  when  the  water  should  be  poured  off,  and  the 
eels  remain  at  least  half  an  hour— to  reflect  on  what  the  cook  intends  to  do 
next !  They  are  then  fit  for  cooking — the  meat  is  white  and  sweet,  and  free 
from  that  strong  rancid  flavor  which  is  peculiar  to  them  before  they  go 
through  this  steaming  process.  They  are  commonly  used  as  a  pan  fish ; 
but  they  make  a  delicious  pie,  (with  very  little  butter)  or  a  good  chowder." 

Our  passage  to  Boston  was  a  matter  of  five  hours,  and  we 
landed  at  the  "  T"  in  a  heavy  rain,  dined  at  the  Tremont  at 
tjiree,  and  were  at  home  in  New  Bedford  at  six,  (per  railroad,) 
having  completed  a  circle  of  very  agreeable  travel  in  unmitigated 
Yankeedom. 

Yours,  &c. 


LETTER  FROM  WALTON, 

Freedom  from  Work — Excursion  on  the  new  Scenery  opened  by  the  Erie 
Rail-Road—Walton,  on  the  West  Branch  of  the  Delaware — Plank  Road 
— Sugar  Maples — Stumps  out — Spots  to  Live  in — Cheapness  of  Life  here. 

WALTON,  West  Branch  of  the  Delaware,  > 

June, ^ 

MY  DEAR  MORRIS  : — I  came  away  to  get  out  of  harness,  and 
be  idle  for  a  few  days  ;  but,  as  a  horse,  when  turned  out  to  pas 
ture,  takes  a  short  trot  before  beginning  to  graze,  to  make  sure 
that  his  load  is  not  still  behind  him,  I  will  try  my  hand  this 
morning  at  an  uncompelled  scribble — stopping  when  I  like,  of 
course,  or  capering  as  the  caprice  takes  me.  Please,  therefore, 
to  consider  me  as  "  a  loose  horse,"  and  look  for  no  method  in  my 
pranks  or  paces. 

I  date  from  a  place  so  lovely,  that  I  shall  not  be  easy  till  I 
have  sent  every  one  here  in  whose  knowledge  of  beautiful  things 
I  take  an  interest.  A  week  ago  I  had  never  heard  that  there  was 
such  a  place  as  WALTON.  Probably,  to  most  of  the  readers  of 


WALTON.  73 


the  Home  Journal,  it  will  be  a  town  now  first  named.  Yet,  a 
neighborhood  better  worth  adding  to  the  sweet  world  which  the 
memory  puts  together  and  inhabits,  could  scarcely  be  pointed  out. 
Let  me  tell  you  something  about  it. 

Walton  sits  on  a  knee  of  the  Delaware,  with  mountains  folding 
it  in,  like  the  cup  of  a  water-lily.  As  I  heard  a  man  say  yester 
day,  li  they  have  so  much  land  here  that  they  had  to  stand  some 
of  it  on  edge,"  but  these  upright  mountain-sides  are  so  regularly 
and  beautifully  overlapped,  each  half-hidden  by  another,  that  the 
horizon,  scollopped  by  the  summits  upon  the  sky,  is  like  nothing 
so  much  as  the  beautiful  thing  I  speak  of — the  rim  of  the  water- 
lily's  cup  when  half-blown.  Steep  as  these  leafy  enclosures  are, 
however,  the  valley  is  a  mile  across,  and  the  hundred  rich  farms 
on  its  meadows  are  interlaced  by  a  sparkling  brook,  which,  though 
but  a  nameless  tributary  to  the  full  river  below,  is  as  large  as  the 
English  Avon.  I  breakfasted  this  morning  on  its  trout,  and  a 
stream  with  such  fish  in  it,  I  think,  should  be  voted  a  baptism. 

Walton  has  shed  its  first  teeth — is  old  enough,  that  is  to  say,  for 
the  stumps  to  have  rotted  out — and  of  course  it  has  a  charm  which 
belongs  to  few  places  so  off  the  thoroughfares  of  travel.  It  was 
found  and  farmed  early,  say  seventy  years  ago — the  settlers  who 
appreciated  its  beauties  and  advantages,  leaving  eighty  miles  of 
wilderness  behind  them.  I  may  as  well  say,  here,  by  the  way,  to 
enable  you  to  "  spot"  it,  that  it  is  about  eighty  miles  west  of 
Catskill,  and  as  far  south  of  Utica.  Until  the  opening  of  the 
Erie  Rail-road,  its  produce  reached  market  only  by  a  heavy  drag 
over  the  mountains  to  the  Hudson,  and,  as  it  lay  upon  no  route, 
northward  or  southward,  it  has  remained,  like  an  unvisited  island 
of  culture  in  a  sea  of  forest.  With  so  small  a  population,  the 
numberless  brooks  in  its  neighborhood  are  still  primitively  full  of 
4 


74  SUGAR    MAPLES. 

trout,  its  woods  full  of  deer  find  game,  and  the  small  lakes  in  the 
mountains  still  abounding  with  pickerel  and  smaller  fish.  The 
necessaries  of  life  are  very  cheap,  delicious  butter  a  shilling  a 
pound,  for  instance,  and  oilier  things  in  proportion.  What  a 
place  to  come  and  live  in,  on  a  small  income  ! 

Owin"1  to  a  very  sweet  reason,  (as  sweet  as  sugar,)  the 
meadows  about  Walton  are  studded,  like  an  English  park,  with 
single  trees  of  great  beauty — the  sugar-maples  having  been 
economically  left  standing  for  their  s&p,  by  the  settlers  and  their 
descendants.  You  can  fancy  how  much  this  adds  to  the  beauty 
of  a  landscape  free  from  stumps,  and  richly  cultivated  up  to  the 
edges  of  the  wilderness.  In  fact,  Walton  looks  hardly  American, 
to  me.  The  river  and  its  mountains  are  like  the  Khine,  and  the 
fields  have  an  old  country  look,  free  from  the  rawness  of  most  of 
our  rural  scenery.  You  see  I  am  in  love  with  the  place,  but, 
barring  that  I  see  it  in  June,  with  its  crops  all  waving  and  its 
leaves  and  flowering  trees  ?J1  amorously  adolescent,  I  picture  it 
as  I  think  you  will  find  it. 

How  the  Delaware  gets  out  of  this  valley,  without  being  poured 
over  the  horizon,  is  one  of  the  riddles  with  which  the  eye  plagues 
itself  in  looking  down  upon  it  from  the  hills.  It  apparently  runs 
straight  up  to  the  side  of  the  mountain,  and,  but  for  the  swift 
current,  you  would  take  what  is  visible,  of  its  course,  to  be  a 
miniature  lake.  The  roads  on  its  banks,  and  in  every  direction 
out  from  Walton,  are  the  best  of  country  roads,  and  there  are 
enough  of  them  to  offer  every  desirable  variety  in  drives — this 
(take  notice  !)  being  an  inestimable  advantage  in  a  country-place, 
and  one  which  should  be  inquired  into  before  a  man  settles  him 
self  with  expectation  of  pleasure  in  country  life.  Horses  enlarge 


PLANK    ROAD.  75 


one's  daily  world  from  two  miles  square  to  twenty— where  the 
roads  are  varied  and  tolerable. 

I  almost  grudge  the  public  (the  "  promiscuous"  part  of  the 
public,  that  is  to  say,)  its  next  year's  easy  access  to  this  lovely 
spot — a  plank  road  being  in  progress,  which  will  bring  it  within 
two  hours  of  the  Erie  Rail-road,  and  within  ten  hours  of  New 
York.  It  is  to  be  finished  this  autumn,  and,  then,  there  will  be 
no  spot  so  desirable  to  New  Yorkers  as  a  neighborhood  for  coun 
try  residences.  Though  on  the  Delaware,  it  is  not  so  near  as 
New  York  itself  to  that  part  of  the  Delaware  visited  by  fever 
and  ague,  and  health,  in  its  purest  shape  and  quality,  reigns  in 
this  transalpine  region.  To  those  who  do  business  on  the  sea 
board,  a  residence  beyond  a  range  of  mountains  is  best, — the 
complete  change  of  air,  which  is  so  salubrious,  being  securable, 
(as  Dr.  Franklin  says,)  only  by  a  transalpine  removal,  and  at 
least  fifty  miles'  distance  from  the  city.  One  could  maintain  a 
family  (says  a  resident  herej  in  better  style  at  Walton  for  one 
thousand  dollars  a  year,  than  in  New  York  for  four  thousand  ; 
and,  adding  better  health  to  this  economy,  and  having  a  convey 
ance,  between,  as  luxurious  as  are  the  cushioned  sleeping-cars  of 
the  Erie  road,  the  inducement  seems  irresistible.  To  the  many 
who  have  inquired  of  me,  by  letter  and  visit,  as  to  desirable 
locations  for  rural  residence,  I  hasten  to  say — go  look  at  Walton. 

At  present,  the  access  to  this  place  is  by  stage  from  Deposit, 
on  the  Erie  Rail-road — a  ride  of  twenty  miles.  A  part  of  this 
route  is  over  what  is  called  Walton  Mountain,  and  a  rough  ride  ; 
and,  to  those  who  have  leisure,  I  should  recommend  making  the 
excursion  by  private  hired  vehicle,  and  by  a  somewhat  different 
route.  Both  Deposit  and  Walton  are  on  the  West  Branch  of 
the  Delaware,  and  a  road  follows  the  river  all  the  way,  adding 


76  THE    AMERICAN    RHINE. 

but  four  or  five  miles  to  the  distance,  and  revealing,  at  every 
step,  most  inexhaustible  varieties  of  beautiful  scenery.  If  I  am 
not  mistaken,  this  West  Branch  of  the  Delaware  is  the  Rhine  of 
our  country.  I  say,  with  confidence,  that  twenty  or  thirty  such 
continuous  miles  of  picturesque  combination  in  scenery  can  be 
found  no  where  else.  The  vegetation  seems  more  luxuriant  than 
on  the  East  Branch,  and  the  long  ridges  which  monotonously 
hem  in  the  Susquehannah  and  other  rivers,  are  here  changed  to 
interlocked  mountains,  every  one  of  which  the  river  must  almost 
encircle  to  get  by.  It  is  a  stream  of  perpetual  surprises,  repeat 
ing  itself  never,  and  never  tame  or  unattractive. 

I  have  written  a  long  letter,  my  dear  Morris — right  of  idleness 
to  the  contrary,  notwithstanding — and  have  only  given  you  the 
pickings-up  of  this  last  day  of  my  excursion.  I  started,  as  you 
know,  on  a  scenery-hunt  into  the  regions  new-opened  by  the 
Erie  road,  and  saw  much  that  is  well  worth  noting  on  my  way 
hither.  In  another  letter  I  will  give  you  a  sketch  of  this  omitted 
portion,  describing  the  scenery  from  Piermont  to  Deposit,  etc., 
etc.  With  my  present  kind  host  and  friend,  Dr.  Bartlett,  I  start 
to-morrow  on  horseback,  to  track  the  twelve  miles  of  wilderness 
between  the  East  and  West  Branches  of  the  Delaware — a  region 
untrodden  but  by  the  hunter  and  his  game.  If  dame  Nature,  in 
this  her  unprofaned  privacy,  shows  me  anything  of  which  I  before 
had  no  knowledge  or  suspicion,  I  will  reveal  it  to  you  and  the 
world,  under  the  usual  promise  of  secrecy. 

Good  night. 


LETTER  FROM  THE  DELAWARE, 

Furnishing  of  Carpet  Bag — Whip-poor-will's  Reminder — Difference  of 
Fatigue  in  Walking  and  Riding  on  Horseback — Coquetting  of  Cadosia  and 
Maiden  Usefulness — Oldest  Delaware  Hunter — Ride  of  Twelve  Miles 
through  the  untrodden  Wilderness — Dinner  in  the  Forest — A  Hundred 
Trout  Caught  on  a  single  Ride — Desirableness  of  Walton  as  a  Summer 
Residence — Promise  of  Description  of  Scenery  on  the  Erie  Rail-Road. 

CHEHOCTON,  at  the  Fork  of  the  Delaware  Branches,  > 

June  — ,  1849.      $ 

MY  DEAR  MORRIS  : — A  carpet  bag  would  be  unworthy  of  so 
old  a  traveller  as  I,  that  should  have  left  home  without  a  sperma 
ceti  candle  in  its  depths — idem,  a  box  of  matches.  Thus  armed 
against  the  dangers  of  lying  awake  and  thinking  of  sins,  (other 
people's,  of  course,  mine  own  being  tutored  to  come  when  they 
are  called,)  I  am  fortunately,  to-night,  enabled  to  defy  a  whip- 
poor-will,  which,  sitting  in  the  tree  before  my  window,  seems  de 
termined  to  sing  down  the  stars.  If  my  present  week's  vacation 
had  not  been  of  your  own  urging,  I  should  suspect  this  importu 
nate  lird  of  an  errand  from  Fulton  street — the  alternative,  of 


78  A    VIRGIN    BROOK. 

the  sleep  he  prevents,  being  a  letter  to  you,  and  his  three  eternal 
notes,  with  their  prolongation  at  the  end,  having,  to  my  ear,  a 
rather  pokerish  resemblance  to  the  "  more  cop-e-e-e-ee"  of  the 
printer's  insatiate  devil. 

Fortunately,  I  feel  un-reluctantly  wide  awake  ;  and,  by-the- 
bye,  did  you  ever  notice  that,  while  walking  tires  both  mind  and 
body,  riding  on  horseback  fatigues  only  your  animal  portion,  leav 
ing  the  machinery  of  thought  rather  refreshed  than  otherwise  ? 
I  once  read,  in  a  medical  book,  that  persons  of  sedentary  and  in 
tellectual  pursuits,  should  ride  for  exercise,  if  possible — the 
pedestrian  action  pulling  upon  those  forces  of  the  spine  which 
support  the  brain,  and  thus  adding  to  the  fatigue  it  is  meant  to 
lessen.  The  remark  explained,  at  the  time,  an  enigma  in  my 
own  experience — the  long  walks,  so  sagely  recommended  after 
brain-work,  having  been  repugnant  to  all  my  instincts — but,  to 
night,  I  have  another  confirmation  of  it,  in  feeling  quite  ready  for 
work  in  my  thought-mill,  though  I  have  been  in  the  saddle  all 
day. 

My  friend  Bartlett's  purpose,  in  the  ride  we  have  taken,  was 
to  present  me  to  the  acquaintance  of  a  virgin  brook,  the  Cadosia, 
— a  silver  thread  through  the  wilderness — upon  the  shaded  seclu 
sion  of  whose  course  no  road  for  the  purposes  of  man  has  hitherto 
crushed  a  flower.  It  is  now  under  contract  as  the  route  of  the 
Plank  Koad  from  Walton  to  the  Erie  railway,  and  its  palpable 
design  by  Nature  for  this  very  project,  makes  its  geography  curi 
ously  interesting.  Rising  upon  a  summit  within  a  few  rods  of  the 
West  Branch  of  the  Delaware,  the  delicate  Cadosia  seemed  des 
tined  only  to  the  briefest  of  maiden  existence,  before  an  inevitable 
union  with  her  stately  neighbor.  Quietly  and  unpretendingly, 
however,  she  turns  away  her  head,  preferring  a  marriage  more 


A    DELAWARE    HUNTER  79 


remote,  and  a  previous  career  of  loveliness  under  her  maiden 
name.  Far  through  the  wilderness  of  opposing  mountains,  she 
marks  out  and  follows  a  gently  winding  valley  of  her  own,  and, 
after  many  a  turn  and  loiter,  is  united,  in  riper  and  more  com 
plete  beauty,  to  the  other  branch  of  the  Delaware,  at  the  roman 
tic  village  of  Chehocton.  I  have  seen  many  a  charming  girl  with 
a  taste  for  just  such  a  career  as  the  Cadosia's. 

We  left  Walton  after  one  of  its  delicious  trout  breakfasts,  and 
followed  the  Delaware,  for  about  eight  miles,  in  a  wagon.  At 
almost  every  half  mile,  on  this  matchless  river-bank,  I  saw  some 
spot  which,  as  a  site  for  a  cottage,  commanded  a  perfect  paradise 
of  scenery,  wanting  nothing  but  a  roof  for  shelter  in  its  midst. 
The  stream  fairly  waltees  on  its  way — so  unceasing  and  constant 
are  its  curves.  Every  mountain  sits  with  an  Eden  in  its  lap. 
The  vegetation  is  prodigal  to  a  degree  that  expresses  constant 
joyousness  to  the  eye.  The  hills  crowd  to  look  over  each  other's 
shoulders  at  the  dance  of  the  river.  Springs  gush  from  the 
rocks  at  every  little  distance.  Nothing  but  love  could  make  a 
spot  of  earth  any  fairer. 

The  summit  near  the  rise  of  the  Cadosia,  overlooks  a  famous 
deer-gap,  and  here  has  lived,  for  seventy  years,  John  Alderson, 
the  greatest  hunter  of  the  Delaware.  We  were  to  leave  our 
wagon  at  his  house  and  take  to  the  saddle.  The  old  rifle-master 
sat  at  his  door  as  we  drove  up — a  tall  and  powerful  man,  with  a, 
physiognomy  such  as  is  moulded  in  the  un-exacting  forest,  and 
his  welcome,  though  simple  as  the  nod  of  a  tree  to  the  wind,  was 
hearty  and  agreeable.  My  friend  had  been  here  before,  and, 
while  the  horses  were  being  saddled,  he  asked  a  question  or  two, 
which  drew  the  hunting-talk  out  of  Alderson  in  graphic  bits  of 
description,  but  we  had  not  the  time  to  get  him  fairly  into  a 


go  GREAT    TROUT-STREAM. 


story.     I  was  sorry,  for  he  is  a  famous  narrator,  and  has  had, 
they  say,  many  a  strange  experience  in  his  long  life  of  adventure. 

"We  forded  the  Delaware  at  a  rift  opposite  Alderson's,  and, 
ascending  to  the  summit,  struck  into  the  woods.  The  Cadosia 
once  found,  its  bank  was  our  guide,  but  the  untrodden  wilderness 
is  a  rough  pathway  for  a  horse.  Tangled  thickets  to  pierce, 
rocks  to  climb  over,  fallen  trees  to  leap,  bogs  to  risk  the  plunging 
and  wading,  drooping  limbs  to  dodge  and  ride  under,  kept  us 
constantly  on  the  alert  at  least,  and  our  progress  was  necessarily 
slow.  At  the  end  of  about  six  miles,  we  came  to  a  rude  log 
cabin,  where  the  hunters,  when  they  are  all  out,  meet  to  divide 
their  game  and  cut  up  their  deer  and  bears,  and  this  being  at  a 
pretty  turn  of  the  brook,  we  dismounted  for  a  lunch.  With  a 
leaning-tree  for  an  easy-chair,  a  large  bass-wood  leaf  for  a  table 
cloth  and  my  knee-pan  for  a  table,  I  luxuriated  upon  a  sandwich 
and  a  certain  excusable  drink,  with  an  appetite  I  would  compro 
mise  to  have  always.  If  you  read  this  with  the  summer  smell  of 
a  city  street  in  your  nostrils,  dear  Morris,  you  may  think  of  a 
d&ner  in  those  fragrant  woods ;  and,  for  the  sigh  that  it  costs 
you,  quote  my  full  authority  ! 

We  came  out  upon  the  Delaware  a  little  after  sunset,  having 
been*six  hours  in  travelling  the  twelve  mile  course  of  the  Cadosia. 
Of  course  we  had  loitered  at  will,  and  our  two  companions,  who 
had  cut  poles  and  fished  as  they  came  along,  arrived,  an  hour 
after  us,  with  a  hundred  trout  strung  upon  birch  rods.  When 
the  plank  road  is  finished  through  here,  for  another  summer's 
use,  this  bright  brook,  so  overrunning  with  this  delicious  fish, 
will  be  a  great  haunt  for  sportsmen.  I  trust  that,  by  that  time, 
there  will  be  some  comfortable  accommodation  for  summer  visi 
tors  at  Walton — airy  rooms,  mattresses  to  sleep  upon,  cooking 


.  .  •• 

HINT    TO    TAVERNS.  81 


simple  and  clean,  and  willing  attendance — all  of  which  are  neces 
sities  not  as  commonly  provided  for  as  would  seem  natural — and 
it  will  soon  be  known  as  the  most  desirable  of  secluded  resorts  for 
metropolitans. 

I  have  not  heard  my  whip-poor-will  for  the  last  half  hour,  and 
I  presume,  therefore,  that  I  am  at  liberty  to  go  to  bed.  My 
goose-quill  has  out-vigiPd  him,  I  believe.  Good  night. 

Yours,  &o. 


4* 


LETTER  FROM  FORK  OF  THE  DELAWARE, 

CHEHOCTON,  Fork  of  the  Delawares. 

MY  DEAR  MORRIS  : — I  had  a  feeling  of  vexation,  just  now,  at 
seeing  the  rail-train  go  by,  loaded  with  people — the  impression  of 
this  romantic  •  neighborhood,  upon  a  traveller  whirling  past  it  in 
one  of  those  rapid  cars,  being  necessarily  so  erroneous  and 
imperfect,  compared  with  what  he  would  receive  from  it  with  a 
day's  halt  and  ramble  !  One  longs  to  call  back  the  train  with  its 
careless  passengers,  and  make  every  intelligent  man  go  up  one  of 
the  mountain  sides,  near  by,  and  look  about  to  see  what  he  was 
losing. 

The  two  branches  of  the  Delaware  (known  to  the  Indians  as 
the  two  separate  rivers,  Coquago  and  Popacton)  try  hard  to  meet, 
on  the  very  spot  where  stands  the  Railroad  Depot.  After 
separate  courses  for  forty  or  fifty  miles,  they  here  rush  point 
blank  at  each  other,  and  come  within  a  hundred  rods  of  an 
embrace ;  but  lo  !  a  mountain  puts  down  its  immovable  foot  in 
opposition.  Fretting  slightly  at  the  sudden  arrest  of  their  career, 
they  gracefully  part  again,  go  round  the  opposing  mountain  and 
meet  beyond  it : — as  pretty  a  type  of  most  marriages  as  mocking 


CHEHOCTON.  S3 


Nature   could   well    have   given    in    her    pleasant  volume   of 
hieroglyphics. 

On  the  instep  of  this  t wain-dividing  mountain — a  gracefully- 
shaped  green  knoll  within  a  rod  or  two  of  the  Depot  of 
Chehocton — you  may  stand  and  look  up  the  two  Branches  of  the 
Delaware,  with  the  Coquago  on  your  left  and  the  Popacton  on 
your  right,  and  there  are  few  more  admirable  commanding  points 
of  scenery.  The  village  below  is  small  and  almost  entirely  new — 
but  of  this  I  have  a  description  better  stored  with  facts  than 
would  be  one  of  my  own.  An  intelligent  old  gentleman  residing 
here  gives  me  the  following  sketch  of  Chehocton,  and,  as  descri 
bing  one  of  the  thousand  available  treasures  of  location  laid  open 
by  the  Erie  Railroad,  I  think  its  information  valuable  : — 

"  CHEHOCTON,  or,  as  nearer  the  original  name  of  the  primitive  red  man, 
Chehawkan  or  Shehowking,  is  situate  on  the  New  York  and  Erie  Railroad, 
in  the  town  of  Hancock,  in  the  county  of  Delaware,  one  hundred  and  seventy 
miles  from  the  city  of  New  York.  This  present  village  and  railroad  depot, 
are  on  a  narrow  neck  of  land  where  the  two  branches  of  the  Delaware 
approach  to  within  the  distance  of  one  hundred  rods,  and  again  receding,  so 
as  to  embrace  Fork  Mountain,  an  elevation  of  some  three  hundred  feet,  pass 
on  to  their  confluence  one  and  a  half  miles  below.  The  name  is  said  to  have 
imported,  in  the  Indian  tongue,  the  marriage,  or  wedded  union  of  the  waters, 
and  if  so,  does  not  strictly  apply  to  the  present  village.  Whereas  this  place 
was,  until  the  making  of  the  railroad,  one  of  the  most  isolated  in  the  state, 
being  seldom  visited  except  by  lumbermen,  or  farmers  furnishing  supplies ; 
it  is  now  coming  into  notice  as  likely  to  become  one  of  the  most  important 
depots  for  many  miles  on  the  route.  For  this,  Nature  has  done  much,  the 
make  of  the  country,  embracing  almost  all  of  the  valley  of  East  Branch,  and 
also  that  of  the  West  Branch,  from  its  source  to  the  distance  of  eight  or  ten 
miles  below  Walton,  being  such  as  to  secure  to  Chehocton  nearly  the  entire 
business  of  the  inhabitants  of  an  area  of  land  embracing  a  surface  of  over  two 
thousand  square  miles.  The  question  may  readily  occur,  inasmuch  as 


84  VILLAGE    PROSPECTS. 


Deposit  is  fourteen  miles  up  the  West  Branch— why  should  the  West 
Branchers  come  to  the.  railroad  at  Chehocton?  In  order  to  understand  this, 
it  is  only  necessary  to  inspect  the  map  of  Delaware  county.  It  will  there 
be  perceived  that  the  two  Branches  of  the  Delaware  have  their  rise  near 
each  other  in  the  northeast  part  of  the  county,  and  run  their  tortuous  course 
south-westerly  fifty  or  sixty  miles,  alternately  approaching  and  receding, 
until,  the  West  Branch  having  reached  Deposit,  it  turns  and  runs  towards 
the  southeast,  to  approach  its  fellow  to  within  the  distance  of  one  hundred 
rods  at  Chehocton  neck,  then  passing  southward ;  and  the  two  Branches  re 
ceding,  so  as  to  embrace  Fork  Mountain,  an  elevation  of  about  three  hundred 
feet,  they  pass  on  to  their  wedded  union,  one  and  a  half  miles  below — the 
twain  thus  becoming  one.  Now,  it  is  worthy  of  notice,  that,  while  in  the  al 
most  entire  course  of  the  branches  there  is  a  high  dividing  mountain  ridge 
between  the  heads  of  the  streams  running  into  either,  yet,  almost  in  a  line 
between  Chehocton  and  Walton,  there  is  an  exception,  insomuch  that  the 
entire  elevation  of  the  summit  at  the  head  of  Cadosia  brook  is  little  over 
three  hundred  and  fifty  feet  above  the  West  Branch,  eight  miles  below  Wal 
ton.  Through  the  Cadosia  valley,  and  passing  this  low  dividing  ridge 
through  a  deep  cut,  apparently  purposely  left  by  dame  Nature,  having  a  high 
mountain  on  either  hand,  a  plank  road  is  now  in  progress  of  being  made. 
The  distance  hence  to  Walton  twenty  miles,  with  no  grade  over  one  hundred 
feet  to  the  mile.  The  distance  from  Walton  to  Deposit,  over  Walton  Moun 
tain,  is  twenty-two  miles — following  the  windings  of  the  river,  probably  not 
less  than  twenty-five  miles.  In  addition  to  the  business  which  will  thus, 
almost  necessarily,  come  here  from  the  valleys  of  both  Branches  of  the  Dela 
ware,  the  people  of  Mount  Pleasant,  Carbondale  and  neighborhood,  contem 
plate  a  turnpike,  to  terminate  here ;  thus,  in  connection  with  existing  roads, 
opening  a  communication  with  the  valley  of  Wyoming,  through  which  will 
be  an  easy  route  of  travel  from  Albany  to  Harrisburgh.  Additional  business 
will  come  from  the  south  and  east,  so  that  a  thriving  agricultural  and  manu 
facturing  population,  inhabiting  a  surface  of  nearly  three  thousand  square 
miles,  will  contribute  to  the  growth  and  importance  of  Chehocton.  Nor 
does  the  growth  and  importance  of  Chehocton  depend  alone  on  its  locatiou. 
Its  water-power,  within  a  few  rods  of  the  railroad  depot,  is  such  as  would 
alone  insure  its  rapid  growth.  With  little  cost,  any  required  quantity  of  the 


YOUNG    MOUNTAINS.  85 


water  of  the  East  Branch  can  "be  so  managed  as  that  with  a  water  head  of 
eight  or  ten  feet,  it  will  afford  sufficient  power  for  various  manufactories. 
For  the  tanning  business,  few  situations,  if  any,  can  excel  it.  Hemlock  bark 
is  abundant  and  easy  to  be  obtained,  while  the  railroad  offers  cheap  trans 
portation  to  and  from  New  York.  Can  it  be  doubted  that  these  advantages 
will  soon  be  brought  into  use.  That  this  will  be  a  place  of  great  resort  for 
the  care-worn  and  business-worn  inhabitants  of  New  York  and  other  places 
on  the  Hudson,  for  relaxation,  and  of  the  infirm  in  pursuit  of  health,  its  ro 
mantic  mountain  scenery,  pure  air  and  water,  and  a  medicinal  spring  of 
approved  medicinal  efficacy,  render  highly  probable.  Our  streams  and 
ponds,  well  stocked  with  fish,  and  the  woods  with  game,  will  be  strong 
attractions  for  the  angler  and  sportsman. 

"  Our  plank  road  will  be  a  further  attraction,  as  affording  the  means  for 
pleasant  excursions  hence  to  Walton,  and  other  thriving  villages  in  the  valley 
of  the  West  Branch.  If  any  have  a  true  taste  and  relish  for  the  sublime,  the 
grand,  the  beautiful  in  uncultivated  nature,  let  them  come  here  and  they  may 
enjoy  a  feast." 

The  hills  in  Europe  being  invariably  bald  at  the  top,  one  of  the 
first  exclamations  of  a  foreigner  is  at  the  fullness  of  the  foliage  on 
the  younger  heads  of  American  mountains.  About  Chehocton, 
the  horizon  is  completely  outlined  with  summits  of  such  clustering 
luxuriance  that  it  seems  a  circle  of  Nature's  healthiest  and  finest 
children.  The  traveller  should,  at  least,  step  out  of  the  cars  at 
this  place,  and  take  a  glance  at  the  formation  of  the  country 
around  him  ;  and  if,  by  chance,  he  should  be  delayed  at 
Chehocton,  or  choose  to  stop  there  for  rambling  or  trouting,  he 
must  get  the  kind  landlord,  Mr.  Falkner,  to  drive  him,  as  he 
drove  me,  to  the  meeting  of  the  Delawares  below.  Pennsylvania 
and  New  York  here  glance  across  the  river  at  each  other,  and, 
by  their  respective  best  looks,  with  a  mutual  intention  to  make  a 
favorable  impression. 


86  BEAUTIFUL    SCENERY. 


On  my  way  from  New  York  hither,  I  saw  several  openings-in 
of  valleys  upon  the  route,  where  it  was  evident,  that,  to  follow  up 
stream  or  down,  would  disclose  new  and  separate  accesses  to 
exquisite  rural  beauty.  All  of  these  I  intend  to  stop  and  explore 
in  my  coming  excursions  ;  but,  just  now,  as  some  of  our  readers 
may  wish  for  earlier  guidance,  I  will  close  my  letter  with  a  simple 
programme  of  the  features  of  the  route  as  they  first  struck  me. 

The  Erie  Company's  boat  reaches  Piermont  in  an  hour  and 
twenty  minutes,  and  the  train  thence  winds  almost  immediately 
in  among  the  mountains.  The  first  lovely  scenery  begins  with 
the  valley  of  the  Ramapo,  and  I  should  think,  that,  to  stop  at 
Suffern  and  explore  for  a  few  miles  around  on  horseback  "  would 
pay."  Ramapo,  Sloatsburg  and  New  Hampton  are  all  picturesque 
neighborhoods,  and  would  furnish  most  desirable  sites  for  resi 
dences  to  those  who  wish  not  to  go  beyond  an  easy  distance  from 
New  York.  Hence  onward  to  Goshen  the  country  is  only 
beautiful  from  its  fertility  and  high  cultivation.  The  attractive 
points  between  this  and  Port  Jervis  are  the  Shoholy  Creek, 
Narrowsburgh  and  Calocoon,  and  at  Port  Jervis  you  come  to  the 
Delaware,  which  is  a  beginning  of  an  uninterrupted  extent  of 
splendid  scenery  for  a  hundred  miles.  The  road  follows  the  bank 
of  the  river  eighty  or  ninety  miles,  to  Deposit,  and  this  has  been 
the  extent  of  my  progression  on  the  present  trip.  Between  Port 
Jervis  and  Deposit  one's  eyes  are  wanted  on  both  sides  of  the 
track,  and,  like  Gibbon,  who  said  of  his  powers  of  illustration, 
after  writing  one  or  two  books,  that "  his  millinery  was  exhausted," 
the  traveller  wishes  for  some  new  way  to  say  "  how  beautiful." 

You  are  "  under  bond"  to  excuse  all  abruptness  in  this  my 

work  of  idleness,  dear  General,  so , 

Yours,  &o. 


LETTER 

FROM  THE  EAST  BRANCH  OF  THE  DELAWARE, 

Hundred  Miles  between  Dinner  and  Tea — Broadway  lined  with  Funerals — 
Daily  Losses  of  Sunrise — Falls  of  the  Sawkill — Delaware  Ferryman — 
Milford  and  its  Character — Search  for  the  Falls — Underground  Organ — 
River  on  End — Likeness  of  General  Cass  in  the  Rock — Bare-toed  Host 
ess,  etc. 

PORT  JERVIS,  on  the,  Delaware,  July  — ,  1849. 
Mr  DEAR  MORRIS  : — A  hundred  miles  betwixt  dinner  and  bed, 
sounds  like  hard  travel  and  late  hours  :  but  I  dined  in  New  York 
yesterday,  at  my  usual  hour,  and,  at  half-past  ten,  went  to  bed 
on  the  banks  of  the  Delaware — with  as  little  fatigue  as  one  would 
feel  sitting  at  table,  for  the  same  length  of  time,  over  cigars  and 
coffee.  Please  realize,  dear  General,  that,  any  hot  day,  with  a 
prospect  of  a  sultry  night  in  the  city,  you  may  leave  by  the  Erie 
route  at  five  in  the  afternoon,  glide  a  hundred  miles  in  a  stuffed 
easy  chair,  go  to  bed  early  on  the  other  side  of  the  mountains,  at 
Port  Jervis,  and  be  again  in  the  city  the  next  morning  at  eleven  ; 
the  perfection  of  scenery  and  fresh  air,  going,  staying,  and  re 
turning.  As  I  looked  at  the  full  moon  over  this  beautiful  river, 
last  night,  I  took  a  vow  not  to  let "  familiarity  breed  Contempt," 


88  RARITY    OF    SUN-RISE. 


of  these  charming  opportunities  newly  wedded  to  my  enjoyment — 
no,  not  "till  death  us  do  part."  I  may  mention,  by  the  way, 
that  the  city,  as  I  left  it,  gave  me  a  strong  contrast  as  a  prepara 
tive  to  enjoyment  of  life — one  line  of  funerals  threading  Broad 
way  from  Waverly  Place  to  the  Park,  and  the  carriage  in  which 
I  drove,  passing  seven  hearses  in  that  distance.  It  took  many  a 
mile  of  the  animated  and  bright  scenery  of  the  Hudson  to  dis 
place  the  melancholy  spectacle  from  my  thoughts. 

Prevented,  by  my  departure,  yesterday  afternoon,  from  seeing 
Father  Mathew  welcomed  to  this  side  the  water,  (though  the 
band  of  music  going  to  meet  him,  played  in  a  gap  between  two 
of  the  funerals  just  alluded  to,)  I  determined  to  honor  him  in  a 
symbol ;  and  was  up  this  morning  at  four  to  receive  the  sun, — a 
minister  of  healthful  influences  like  His  Keverence,  and  like  him 
"  newly  arrived  from  Europe,"  and  entering  with  glowing  and 
universal  welcome  on  a  path  of  blessing  to  the  west.  Did  you 
ever  see  the  sun  rise,  my  dear  Morris  ?  One  blushes  to  think 
that  the  same  magnificent  affair  takes  place  every  common  morn 
ing,  and  scarce  twice  in  a  life-time  does  one  trouble  himself  to  be 
"  there  to  see."  Alas  !  of  the  feast  which  God  sets  out  for  us, 
daily,  how  much  of  the  choicest  and  sweetest  goes  from  the  table 
untouched ! 

My  purpose,  on  this  excursion,  was  to  see  the  Falls  of  the 
Sawkill,  and  I  was  on  my  way  thither  in  a  one-horse  wagon, 
while  the  tears  of  the  dark  hours  were  still  trembling  on  the  eye 
lashes  of  the  trees.  (How  sentimental  the  country  makes  one,  to 
be  sure  !)  I  was  ferried  over  the  river,  at  starting,  by  a  Dela 
ware  raftsman,  and  he  was  such  a  clean-limbed,  lithe,  small- 
hipped  and  broad-shouldered  rascal,  in  his  shirt  and  trowsers,  that 
I  could  not  forbear  telling  him  what  a  build  for  a  soldier  was 


DRIVE    TO    MILFORD.  89 

thrown  away  upon  him.  His  reply  expressed  one  of  the  first 
principles  of  Art  in  masculine  symmetry — the  "  inverted  pyra 
mid"  rule  as  to  outline  of  proportions — and  I  therefore  give  it  to 
you  in  the  rough : — "  Not  much  starn,"  said  he,  as  he  shoved 
away  at  his  pole,  "  but  I've  allers  noticed  that  chaps  heaviest 
about  the  shoulders  does  the  most  work." 

My  pretty  gray  pony  favored  his  fore-foot  a  little  as  he  climbed 
up  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river,  but  my  weight  (a  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  and  a  heart  as  light  as  dignity  would  allow),  was  not 
much  to  draw,  and  he  took  me  to  Milford  very  willingly  in  an 
hour — the  road  taking  the  Delaware  where  the  Erie  route  leaves 
it,  and  keeping  along  the  west  bank,  six  miles,  to  the  mouth  of 
the  Sawkill.  Milford  looks  like  a  town  that  all  the  mountains 
around  have  disowned  and  kicked  into  the  middle — a  bare,  neg- 

7  o 

lected-looking  and  unshaded  village  in  the  centre  of  a  plain,  with 
no  sign  of  life  except  the  usual  tilters  on  two  legs  of  chairs  under 
the  stoups  of  the  taverns.  The  rail-road,  I  suppose,  has  passed 
just  near  enough  to  tap  and  draw  oif  its  "  prospects,"  and  the 
inhabitants  feel  too  much  stranded  and  aground  to  keep  up  any 
appearance  of  being  still  under  way. 

From  a  man  who  was  ploughing  in  a  field,  I  got  a  vague  direc 
tion  to  "  the  Falls,"  which  he  seemed  to  think  were  very  little 
worth  going  to  see.  Yet  he  looked  like  an  intelligent  man,  and 
he  had,  at  least,  imagination  enough  to  personify  a  production  of 
nature,  for,  in  reply  to  a  remark  of  mine,  he  said,  "  yes,  the  sea 
son  is  back'ard  and  the  oats  doii't  like  it"  Pursuing  my  way  to 
11  some'ers  over  that-ar  gap,"  I  came  to  the  last  visible  house  on 
the  road,  and  alighted  to  leave  my  pony  and  strike  across  the 
fields. 


90 


IGNORANCE    OF    WHAT    IS    NEAR   BY. 


"  Can  I  tie  my  horse  to  your  fence,  Ma'am  ?"  I  asked  of  a 
barefooted  old  dame  who  came  out  at  the  sound  of  the  wheels. 

"  You  know  best  whether  you  know  haow  /"  she  said,  looking 
sideways  at  my  mustache  with  an  evident  doubt  whether  it  was 
a  proper  thing  for  a  woman  to  see. 

"  How  far  is  it  to  the  Falls  ?"  I  asked  again. 

"  Ten  mile." 

"  What,  to  the  Sawkill  Falls  ?" 

"  Oh,  them-are  ?  No.  I  thought  you  meant  the  Shoholy 
Falls.  What  you  mean,  I  'spose,  is  just  over  the  hill  yonder." 

Across  ploughed  fields  and  through  wild  thickets  of  brush  and 
wood,  I  made  rather  a  doubting  traverse,  for  I  could  hear  no 
sound  of  falling  water.  I  was  about  concluding  that  I  had  come 
up  the  wrong  mountain,  when  I  stumbled  on  a  cow  track,  and 
knowing  the  hydropathic  habits  of  the  ruminating  sisterhood,  I 
was  sure  that  one  end  or  the  other  of  the  track,  if  a  stream  were 
near  by,  ended  at  its  brink.  My  ear,  presently,  caught  the  roll 
of  a  low,  heavy,  suppressed  thunder,  (a  deep-down  sound,  like  the 
basso's,  whose  voice  was  in  his  boots,)  and  I  felt  at  once 
rewarded  for  my  pains — an  anthem  with  an  under-tone  like  that, 
being,  of  course,  well  worth  the  coming  to  hear.  An  increasing 
spray-moisture  in  the  air,  like  a  messenger  sent  out  to  bring  me 
in,  led  me  up  an  ascent  to  the  right,  and,  with  but  a  little  more 
opposition  by  the  invidious  and  exclusive  birches  and  hemlocks,  I 
"  stood  in  the  presence." 

If  you  can  imagine  a  cathedral  floor  sunk  suddenly  to  the 
earth's  centre — its  walls  and  organ-pipes  elongated  with  it,  and 
its  roof  laid  open  to  the  sky— the  platform  on  which  I  stood  might 
be  the  pulpit  left  hanging  against  one  of  the  columns  whose  bases 
were  lost  sight  of  in  the  darkness  below  ;  and  the  fall  might  repre- 


SAWKILL    FALLS.  91 

sent  the  organ,  directly  in  face  of  the  pulpit,  whose  notes  had 
been  deepened  in  proportion  to  its  downward  elongation.  From 
above,  the  water  issues  apparently  out  of  the  cleft-open  side  of  a 
deep  well  in  the  mountain  top,  and  at  the  bottom  it  disappears 
into  a  subterraneous  passage  apparently  unexplorable,  the  hollow 
roar  of  which  sounds  like  a  still  heavier  fall,  in  the  un-plummeted 
abysses  out  of  sight.  With  what  you  can  see  of  the  depth,  and 
what  you  can  conjecture  of  the  profundity  by  the  abyssmal  roar, 
you  might  fancy  the  earth's  axis  had  gone  through  here  perpen 
dicularly,  on  a  tunnel  laid  open  by  lightning,  and  that  the  river, 
like  Paul  Pry,  had  "just  dropped  in."  Indeed,  anything  more 
like  a  mile  of  a  river  galvanized  to  stand  suddenly  on  end,  I 
never  saw. 

With  the  aid  of  roots,  overhanging  branches,  and  ledges  of 
rock,  I  descended  to  the  basin  of  the  fall,  and,  truly,  the  look 
upwards  was  a  sight  to  remember.  The  glittering  curve  at  the 
top  of  the  cascade  was  like  the  upper  round  of  Jacob's  ladder 
resting  against  the  sky — (the  ascending  and  descending  angels, 
of  course,  draped  in  muslin  for  the  summer,  like  statuary  pro 
tected  from  the  flies) — and,  so  dark  were  the  high  walls  around, 
that  it  seemed  night  where  I  stood,  with  the  light  coming  only 
from  one  bright  spot  radiating  downwards.  I  endeavored  to 
penetrate  the  dark  chasm  from  which  comes  the  subterranean 
music,  but  it  looked  to  be  rather  a  doubtful  experiment,  and  hav 
ing  no  friend  there  u  to  write  my  obituary  notice,"  I  deferred  the 
attempt  till  I  could  make  it  in  some  sort  of  company. 

Congregation  of  waterfalls  as  Trenton  is,  and  with  much  more 
water  than  here,  there  is  no  one  part  of  Trenton,  I  think,  equal  in 
strangeness  and  sublimity  to  the  single  chasm  of  the  Sawkill.  The 
accidental  advantages  of  view  are  most  remarkable  ;  and,  though, 


92  SUDDENNESS    OF   DESCENT. 


from  twenty  points,  it  is  a  scene  of  the  most  picturesque  singu 
larity,  yet  as  a  view  downwards — into  darkness,  grandeur  and 
mystery — the  one  glance  from  its  summit  cliff  seems  to  me  wholly 
unsurpassed.  The  dim  and  cavernous  gorge  below  the  fall  affords 
a  rocky  standing-place — the  nearest  approach  that  can  very 
easily  be  made  to  the  resounding  abyss  out  of  sight — where  a 
contemplative  man,  fond  of  the  shadowy  dimness  of  the  sublime, 
might  fancy  himself  in  mid-earth,  a-top  of  the  thunder  forge  of 
Yulcan.  It  is  a  very  pretty  contrast  to  all  this,  by-the-way,  that 
the  pool  above,  before  making  the  grand  plunge  of  the  fall,  glides 
up,  most  tranquilly,  to  bathe  the  foot  of  a  delicate  aspen- tree 
rooted  upon  a  moss-covered  tablet  of  rock — the  abyss  opening 
beneath  it  as  it  turns  away,  like  the  trap-door  in  the  Eastern 
story,  which  let  through  the  worshippers  of  the  enchantress  as 
they  knelt  to  pay  homage  to  her  beauty.  Immediately  beyond 
this,  in  the  cleft  of  rock  through  which  the  stream  first  appears, 
is  a  curiously  correct  profile  likeness  of  General  Cass — the  nose  a 
little  out  of  joint  perhaps,  but  the  open  mouth,  prosperous  double 
chin  and  one-sided  toupee,  true  to  the  life.  A  curious  effect  struck 
me  as  I  climbed  up  the  side — a  view  of  the  sheet  of  the  cascade, 
through  a  very  sparse  fringe  of  foliage — resembling  the  most 
exquisite  embroidery  of  sprigs  of  hemlock  upon  lace. 

From  a  man  whom  I  met  after  finding  the  road  again  with 
some  difficulty,  I  learned  that  the  Sawkill  river  is  but  about  six 
miles  in  its  entire  length.  It  is  the  outlet  of  two  small  lakes,  five 
miles  above  the  Falls,  and  runs  a  very  smooth  and  common-place 
course  till  ty  comes  to  the  mountain  side  which  lets  it  down  into 
the  valley  of  the  Delaware.  I  had  followed  it  up,  for  a  few  rods 
of  its  undistinguished  flow,  through  the  fields  above,  and  it  cer- 


NO    OBJECTION    TO    MONEY.  93 


tainly  looked  to  have  very  little  anticipation  of  what  circum-pre- 
cipices  and  tight  places  were  about  to  do  for  it. 

I  had  breakfasted  on  a  cup  of  tea  and  no  appetite,  at  half-past 
six,  and,  as  it  was  now  close  upon  noon,  and  my  admiration  had 
been  largely  drawn  upon,  I  was  a  little  hungry.  Stopping  at 
the  first  farm-house,  I  found  an  old  woman  toasting  her  bare 
toes  before  a  pine-wood  fire,  (July  3d),  and  she  readily  set  before 
me  a  loaf  of  new  bread  and  a  tumbler  of  spring  water,  of  which  I 
made  such  a  meal  as  natural  thankfulness  says  grace  over.  The 
old  dame  said  she  had  a  son  that  "was  first  rate"  and  two 
daughters,  and  I  recommended  to  her  the  "  speculation"  of  add 
ing  a  room  or  two  to  her  house,  and  accommodating  people  who 
might  come  to  see  the  Falls.  As  you  may  get  here  in  six  hours 
from  New  York,  and  the  spot  is  one  of  the  most  romantic  in  the 
world,  it  cannot  be  long  before  there  is  some  such  provision  for 
travellers.  I  dare  say  the  barefoot  old  lady  herself  might  be  in 
duced  to  turn  a  penny  in  this  way,  (though  she  shook  her  head  at 
the  first  proposition,)  for,  on  my  asking  her  if  she  would  allow 
me  to  pay  for  my  bread  and  water,  she  modestly  fumbled  with  the 
tongs  and  said  I  might  leave  what  I  liked  upon  the  table. 

In  momentary  expectation  of  the  arrival  of  the  train  which 
will  take  me  to  another  beautiful  place  farther  West,  I  say  good 
morning,  dear  Morris,  and  remain, 

Yours,  &c. 


LETTER  FROM  MONTROSE, 

Port  Jervis— Takes  Two  or  Three  Yankees  to  Start  a  New  Town— Punctual 
Anaconda— Difference  between  Rail-roads  in  America  and  in  England- 
Fall  from  a  Mountain-top— Summit  Level  and  the  Storucco— Road  in  the 
Air,  Passing  over  a  Village— Great  Bend — Cold  Ride  to  Montrose — 
Edith  May's  Ownership  of  Silver  Lake — Her  "  Bays"  and  Bay  Horses — 
Rose's  Villa  in  Ruins — Pic-nic  Dinner  in  the  Summer- House— Negro  Pre 
cedence—Complimentary  '  Kindness  of  my  Landlord — Celibacy  of  the 
Susquehannah's  "  Intended,'7  etc. 

HAVING  "  boned  and  potted"  the  Falls  of  the  Sawkill  for  you, 
my  dear  Morris,  I  found  myself  at  Port  Jervis,  with  an  hour  upon 
my  hands,  and  went  out  to  bestow  my  powers  of  absorption  upon 
any  who  might  be  disposed  to  communicate.  I  learned  that 
there  are  one  or  two  pretty  lakes  in  the  mountains  near  by,  where 
pickerel  fishing  "  will  pay,5"  and  trout-streams  in  all  directions. 
Seeing  the  livery-stable  keeper,  of  whom  I  had  hired  my  horse 
and  wagon,  peddling  bread  from  a  baker's  cart  about  the  village, 
I  hailed  him  to  enquire  in  which  of  these  conflicting  vocations  he 
was  properly  at  home — for  I  had  seen  him  curry  his  horses  and 


A    STATISTIC.  95 


clean  out  his  stable  with  a  circumstantiality  that  seemed  to  me 
hardly  compatible  with  that  morning's  bread. 

"  Why,  yaess  !"  he  said,  "  I  daoo  both.  I'm  a  Yankee,  and 
it  takes  two  or  three  on  us  to  start  these  naew  taowns." 

His  reply  embodied  a  statistic,  and  I  leave  it  on  record, 
therefore,  in  the  native  dialect,  for  history. 

The  train  came  out  of  the  woods,  like  a  punctual  anaconda,  at 
the  precise  moment  when  its  puffing  crest  was  expected,  and  I 
was  presently  coiling  away  westward  on  the  serpentine  edge  of  the 
Delaware  ;  the  route  from  Port  Jervis  to  Deposit  being  a  perpet 
ual  "  ladies'  chain" — the  petticoat  of  the  mountain  to  the  left  no 
sooner  turned,  than  you  are  thrown  off  to  the  right  around  the 
skirt  of  another,  and  so  right  and  left  for  eighty  miles,  in  constant 
alternation.  Railroads  anywhere  are  wonderful  enough,  but  they 
seem  much  more  startling,  as  triumphs  over  matter,  when  the 
obstacles  that  have  been  overcome  are  only  removed  beyond 
immediate  reach  of  collision,  and  the  swift  train  glides  apparently 
over  broken  rocks,  prostrate  timber,  awful  chasms  and  furious 
torrents,  as  unhindered  as-  a  bird  upon  the  wing.  In  England, 
where  the  only  look-out,  from  the  window  at  the  side,  is  upon  a 
smoothly-sloped  lawn  or  a  trim  hedge  fence,  the  speed  and 
unobstructiveness  seem  more  reasonable.  One  "  candidly  con 
fesses,"  as  he  sits  upon  soft  cushions  and  finds  all  manner  of 
obstinate  things  making  way,  right  and  left,  above  and  below — 
thirty  miles  an  hour,  spite  of  precipices  and  prostrate  timber, 
stumps,  gulleys  and  mountains — that  these  two  little  iron  threads 
through  the  wilderness  were  a  great  idea. 

The  conductor  very  kindly  pointed  out  to  me  a  curiosity  I 
should  have  missed,  between  Equinunk  and  Hankins — the  road 
there  passing  under  a  steep  mountain,  from  the  very  crest  of 


96  RAIL-ROAD    WONDERS. 

which  pours  a  waterfall.  His  attention  was  drawn  to  it  at  the 
first  opening  of  the  road,  by  the  splendid  mass  of  icicles  which  it 
hangs  high  up  against  the  sky  in  the  winter-time,  though  the 
trees,  which  frill  in  its  precipitous  descent,  almost  entirely  obscure 
it  in  the  summer.  It  must  be  like  a  stream  out  of  a  cloud,  in 
the  season  when  water  is  plenty.  It  promised  famously  for 
exploring,  but  whether  it  was  the  outlet  of  a  mountain  lake  or  a 
table-land  stream  surprised  by  a  precipice,  we  could  not 
typographize  from  the  platform  of  our  unslackening  car. 
'  As  the  train  approaches  the  Susquehannah,  there  is  a  general 
liveliness  of  attention  in  the  cars,  the  gentlemen  giving  over  their 
naps  and  the  ladies  putting  aside  their  veils,  and  preparing  to 
look  out  of  the  windows — for  here  occurred  the  most  formidable 
obstacles  of  the  route,  and  the  triumphs  of  engineering  are  very 
picturesque.  A  mountain  of  rock  to  be  pierced,  a  gulf  of  two 
hundred  feet  to  be  crossed,  and  a  village  to  be  passed  over  by  a 
road  in  the  air,  were  three  impediments  to  the  descent  upon  the 
Susquehannah,  which  might  well  have  staggered  faith  in  the  first 
survey  of  the  road.  In  compliment  to  the  curiosity  of  passen 
gers,  the  engineer  slackens  speed  at  this  point,  and,  between  the 
rocky  walls  of  the  cleft  door-way  to  the  valley  of  another  river, 
across  the  awful  chasm  of  the  Storucco,  and  down  the  inclined 
plane  with  Lanesboro'  under  its  lofty  arches,  the  cars  move  in 
stately  deliberation.  The  wonder  that  one  feels,  here,  however, 
at  the  achievements  of  enterprise  and  science,  is  mingled  with 
admiration  of  scenery,  for  there  is  no  spot  where  the  Susquehannah 
is  finer,  than  at  this  first  view;  and,  from  here  to  the  Great 
Bend,  eight  or  nine  miles,  that  noble  river  is  perhaps  in  the 
plenitude  of  its  magnificent  beauty.  The  interval  land  in  the 
bottom  is  varied  with  graceful  mounds,  the  stream  is  fuller  and 


EDITH    MAY.  97 


statelier  than  the  Delaware,  from  which  the  train  has  just  crossed 
over,  and  the  curves  of  the  channel  are  laid  out  with  most 
capricious  unaccountableness.  To  stop  at  Lanesboro',  and 
examine  the  scenery  for  ten  miles  around,  would  be,  I  should 
say,  abundantly  worth  the  traveller's  while. 

It  had  been  my  own  intention  to  pass  the  Fourth  of  July  in 
exploring  Summit  Level  and  the  Storucco ;  but,  hearing  upon 
the  road,  that  this  point  had  been  selected  by  the  contractors,  to 
give  a  jubilee  on  that  day  to  the  workmen,  I  kept  on  to  G-reat 
Bend,  nine  miles  farther.  "Within  an  hour  or  two  from  here  lay 
two  attractions,  Silver  Lake  and  its  fair  poetess,  Edith  May ;  and, 
by  nine  o'clock,  with  a  full  moon,  I  was  behind  a  pair  of  stout 
roadsters,  climbing  over  the  hills  toward  Montrose,  with  the  in 
tention  to  signalize,  if  possible,  the  national  holiday  of  the  mor 
row,  by  seeing  these  two  of  our  country's  matters  of  pride,  in 
lovely  conjunction.  A  gem  of  a  cultivated  lake,  set  in  a  pic 
turesque  mountain  wilderness,  and  a  gem  of  genius  set  in  un 
usual  personal  beauty,  were  a  combination,  in  the  harmony  of 
which  there  was  a  certain  charm — aside  from  the  "  eye  to  busi 
ness,"  of  seeing  something  to  describe,  and  at  the  same  time  pay 
ing  my  respects  to  one  who,  of  our  HOME  JOURNAL,  is  the  foster- 
child  and  glory. 

You  are  very  likely  to  read  this  with  the  thermometer  at 
ninety,  and  I  will  therefore  refresh  you  with  the  fact,  that,  though 
wrapped  in  the  heaviest  of  cloaks,  I  was  half  frozen  on  the  road 
to  Montrose.  The  driver  found  his  great  coat  insufficient,  and 
restored,  to  its  original  top  uses,  the  bear-skin  which  formed  our 
cushion,  while  the  night-fog,  crystallizing  upon  my  beard,  trans 
formed  me,  as  well  as  I  could  see  by  the  glancing  moonlight,  into 
an  Ice  King,  or  its  very  reasonable  semblance.  With  a  region, 
5 


SILVER   LAKE. 


thus  brought  by  the  Erie  Railroad  within  eight  or  ten  hours  of 
New  York,  where  you  may  shiver,  to  your  heart's  content,  in 
the  height  of  the  summer  solstice,  there  is  small  need  for  subject 
ing  families,  at  least,  to  any  intolerableness  of  hot  weather. 

°0ur  friend  Edith,  besides  her  Pegasus,  is  the  mistress  of  a  very 
dashing  pair  of  this  world's  long-tailed  bays,  kept,  by  her  choice 
English  groom,  in  the  highest  possible  condition.  In  her  light 
wagon  she  drove  me  to  Silver  Lake  on  the  morning  of  the  . 
Fourth,  and  I  must  say  I  was  never  put  over  ten  miles  of  road  in 
better  style  _  though  the  hills  would  pass  for  perpendicular  by  a 
very  slight  figure  of  speech,  and  the  fire-crackers,  of  the  boys  on 
the  way,  varied  the  paces  of  our  team  with  some  desperate  rear 
ing  and  plunging.  Whatever  was  your  weather  in  the  city,  on 
the  Fourth,  it  was  delightfully  tom^trate  and  enjoyable  in  these 
northern  mountains  of  Pennsylvania. 

Silver  Lake  was  selected  for  a  residence  by  a  gentleman  of  for 

tune,  Dr.  Rose,  some  twenty  years  ago.     Building  a  handsome 

villa  upon  its  margin,  he  turned  the  forests  around  it  into  an 

English  park  and  estate,  leasing  its  cleared  land  to  small  farmers, 

and  providing  against  any  alteration  of  the  features  of  the  land 

scape  which  should  not  be  in  accordance  with  taste.     The  Lake 

is  perhaps  a  mile  or  more  in  circumference,  of  a  water  so  singu 

larly  clear  that  you  can  see  the  fish  anywhere  upon  its  pebbly 

bottom,  and  hemmed  in  by  wooded  hills,  partly  cleared  with  a 

view  always  to  the  picturesque.     Dr.  Rose  died  about  a  year 

since,  and  his  house  having  been,  soon  after,  burned   to  the 

ground,  the  family  have  removed,  and  the  place  is  a  solitude. 

An  immense  Newfoundland  dog,  who  seemed  to  be  the  only  resi 

dent  left  in  the  neighborhood,  received  us  at  the  gate  with  the 

most  extravagant  demonstrations  of  joy  ;  but,  leaving  us  to  find 


PROPERTY    BY    RENOWN.  99 

our  own  way  through  the  grounds  to  tho  Lake,  he  stuck  by  the 
horses,  which  we  left  tied  at  the  entrance,  and  followed  us  a  mile 
or  two  on  our  return.  He  feels  the  changes  of  this  uncertain 
world,  poor  fellow  ! 

We  passed  around  the  blackened  ruins  to  the  garden,  where  a 
profusion  of  the  choicest  flowers  were  struggling  with  the  over 
topping  weeds  and  grass,  and,  finding  a  squirrel  sole  tenant  of  a 
spacious  summer-house  at  the  boat-landing,  we  spread  the 
contents  of  our  basket,  with  a  view  of  his  making  a  third  at  his 
leisure,  and  dined  with  a  broad  bench  for  table.  The  scene  was 
Arcady  itself — a  breathless  lake  of  crystal  visible  through  the 
shrubbery  below,  the  air  summer's  sweetest,  the  birds  the  only 
noise-makers,  and  traces  of  taste  all  about  us — and  I  could  not 
but  recognize,  as  I  looked  at  that  beautiful  child  of  genius  leaning 
against  the  lattice  in  her  simple  straw  bonnet  and  gazing  off  upon 
that  little  paradise  of  wood  and  water,  that  there  was  such  a 
thing  as  ideal  property  in  scenery — Silver  Lake  belonging  to  Edith 
May  as  the  Avon  does  to  Shakspeare,  by  title  of  superiority  to 
all  who  had  before  lived  upon  its  borders.  So  Cooper  has 
appropriated  Otsego  Lake,  and  Irving  the  Tappaan  Sea ;  and  the 
acres  of  either  of  these  spots  of  earth  may  be  bought  and  sold  till 
doomsday,  without  dispossessing  the  proprietor  ~by  renown — the 
owner  of  its  associations — the  one  whose  name  will  come  up, 
linked  with  its  mention,  forever. 

"We  loitered  so  long  in  this  captivating  solitude  that  it  took 
very  sharp  driving  to  reach  Montrose  in  time  for  the  coach  I  was 
to  return  by,  but  my  lovely  friend's  lays  were  as  reliable  as  her 
laurels,  and  she  put  me  down  punctually  at  the  hour.  The 
vehicle  drove  up  presently,  but,  departing  again  to  "  accommodate 
some  lady  passengers"  by  taking  them  from  their  own  doors,  it 


100  NEGRO    PRECEDENCE. 

returned  with  eight  negroes,  its  full  complement.  I  had  spoken 
for  my  place  the  night  before,  in  coming  over,  but  possession — • 
(black  or  white  in  this  part  of  the  country  alike)— "  is  nine 
points  of  the  law,"  and  the  colored  gentlemen  and  their  ladies 
were  not  to  be  disturbed.  I  had  fortunately  found  an  old  friend 
in  Mr.  Searle,  the  landlord,  however,  (my  former  residence  of 
Glenmary  being  but  twenty  miles  from  here),  and  he  most  kindly 
ordered  up  a  pair  of  fast  trotters  of  his  own,  and  drove  me, 
himself,  the  fifteen  miles  to  my  destination.  We  followed,  for  a 
considerable  part  of  the  way,  a  fine  valley  that  was  evidently 
<<  the  intended"  of  the  Susquehannah — that  capricious  river 
turning  off  at  the  Great  Bend,  and  going  round,  upon  another 
route,  three  times  the  distance  that  it  would  have  taken  to  reach 
the  same  point  by  this — and  it  was  curious  to  see  how  ill  the 
celibacy  of  the  unwatered  valley  sat  upon  it,  and  how  inexpressi 
bly  the  slumber  of  a  bright  stream  in  its  bosom  would  have 
improved  its  beauty  and  happiness. 

I  shall  come  again  to  this  neighborhood  of  Great  Bend — few 
scenes  in  the  world  being  more  exquisitely  lovely  than  the  few 
miles  above  and  below — but  my  letter  is  long  enough  for  the 
present,  and  so  adieu. 

Yours,  &c. 


LETTER  FROM  LAKE  MAHOPAC, 

Right  of  Genius  and  Scenery  to  Visits  of  Admiring  Recognition— Fountain- 
head  of  the  Croton  and  Lake  Mahopac— Harlem  Railway  to  Croton  Falls 
—Two  Instances  of  High-bred  Politeness— Yacht  Fanny— Lodging  under 
the  Eaves— Drive  to  Mountain  and  View— Lakes  of  Different  Levels- 
Resources  for  Future  Watering  of  New  York— Girls  Boating— Visit  to 
Beautiful  Island  in  the  Mahopac— No  Horses  to  Get  to  Peekskill— Possible 
Redolence  of  Style,  etc.,  etc. 

LAKE  MAHOPAC,  July,  1849. 

IT  is  with  a  certain  feeling  of  relief,  dear  Morris,  that  I  record 
my  presence  at  this  spot :  for,  among  my  instincts  (and  for  in 
stincts  I  have  a  reverential  respect  that  grows  with  my  know 
ledge  of  life),  there  is  one  which  commands  me  to  pay  tributes 
of  deferential  visit  and  recognition  to  either  of  two  masterpieces 
of  Nature,  when  I  shall  find  myself  in  its  neighborhood— to  a 
very  gifted  mind  or  to  a  very  beautiful  passage  of  scenery. 

Were  I  a  stranger  to  Cooper,  for  instance,  and  should  pass 
through  Cooperstown  without  calling  to  pay  my  respects,  or  leave 
a  card  which  might  express  a  stranger's  acknowledgment  of  the 
honor  due  him  by  his  country,  I  should  feel  that  I  had  culpably 


102  DEBTS    TO    GElftUS    AND    SCENERY. 

omitted  the  payment  of  a  loyal  due  to  Nature.  Or  had  I  never 
seen  Trenton  Falls,  and  should  persist  in  traversing  the  great 
thoroughfare  to  the  West,  without  turning  off  at  Utica  to  honor 
Nature  by  a  visit  to  this  her  magnificent  example  of  what  she  can 
do  by  felicitous  physical  (as  she  does  in  genius  by  felicitous  moral) 
combination  of  her  elements,  I  should,  in  the  same  way,  feel 
guilty  of  a  neglect  of  deference,  which  was  more  due  as  my  own 
spirit  was  finer  and  more  appreciative. 

Now,  varlets  that  we  are  !  (and  I  will  "  make  a  clean  breast" 
for  the  firm,  while  I  am  about  it)  have  "we"  not,  Morris  and 
Willis,  passed  months  together  at  your  eyrie  of  Undercliff — 
eighteen  miles  only  from  Lake  Mahopac,  the  head  waters  of  the 
Croton — and,  with  time  and  two  gray  horses  on  our  hands,  never 
once  driven  over  to  see  the  beautiful  spot,  which,  like  the  unseen 
principle  of  life,  keeps  unsuspended  watch  over  the  vital  circula 
tion  of  our  city's  arteries,  and,  to  its  myriad  healthful  veins,  sends 
the  ever  prompt  and  salutary  fluid  ?  The  Spirit  of  Beauty  and 
the  Spirit  of  Utility  were  alike  neglected  in  this  unperformed  pil 
grimage. 

I  am  ashamed  additionally  to  record,  that,  almost  from  our 
office  door,  several  times  a  day,  runs  a  rail  train  to  within  four 
miles  of  Lake  Mahopac,  and  vehicles  ply  regularly  over  this 
remainder  of  the  way.  The  whole  distance,  about  fifty-four 
miles,  is  done  usually  in  three  hours,  and  the  route  runs,  most  of 
its  course,  upon  the  banks  of  the  Croton  and  its  tributaries— in 
different  scenery,  but  an  amusing  ride,  with  its  busy  sprinkle  of 
cits  let  off,  right  and  left,  to  their  suburban  retreats,  at  every 
blow  of  the  whistle.  The  New  Haven  trains,  I  should  mention, 
run  fifteen  miles  on  the  Harlem  track,  turning  off  eastward  to 
Connecticut  at  Williams  Bridge. 


TWO    POLITENESSES.  103 


I  left  town  at  five,  and  reached  Lake  Mahopac  a  little  after 
dark.  The  driver  said  there  were  two  public  houses,  and  took 
me  to  the  larger.  The  boarders  were  doing  Polka  to  a  piano, 
and,  as  the  coach  drove  up,  a  gentleman  came  forward  to  the 
gate,  whom,  taking  to  be  the  landlord,  I  applied  to  for  quarters. 
I  must  do  our  country's  manners  the  justice  to  record  the  polite 
ness  of  this  gentleman.  He  might  reasonably  have  turned  his 
shoulder  at  being  mistaken  for  a  country  landlord,  but  he,  in 
stead,  courteously  offered  to  accompany  me  to  the  landlady,  and 
went  before  me,  introducing  me  and  stating  my  wish  to  a  dame 
in  the  back  parlor.  I  saw,  by  the  better  light  of  the  interior, 
that  he  was  a  young  man  very  fashionably  dressed,  and  I  thanked 
him  with  a  mental'  admission  that  I  had  never,  in  any  country, 
met  an  instance  of  more  natural  and  true  gentle  breeding. 

Such  things  are  pleasant  to  mention,  and  let  me  record  another 
instance  of  my  countrymen's  politeness.  I  stood  upon  the  shore 
of  the  Lake  the  next  morning  after  breakfast,  watching  a  beauti 
ful  little  yacht  that  was  running  with  full  sail  before  the  wind, 
when  she  suddenly  put  about,  and  made  for  shore.  One  of  the 
three  or  four  gentlemen  who  were  in  her,  landed,  and,  remarking 
that  they  had  observed  from  the  boat  that  I  was  alone,  offered  me 
a  sail  upon  the  Lake.  As  I  was  a  stranger  to  all  the  gentlemen, 
I  need  not  say  that  it  was  a  spontaneous  courtesy  that  would  do 
credit  to  the  manners  of  any  country  in  the  world. 

To  go  back  to  my  arrival — there  was  not  a  room  to  be  had  at 
the  principal  lodging-house,  and  I  went  on  to  the  other,  where  the 
crowd  on  the  stoop  looked  equally  unpromising.  One  of  those 
sharp  little  twelve-year-old  Yankee  boys,  who,  in  New  England, 
very  commonly  do  all  the  bar-tending  and  host-playing  of  public 
houses,  went  up  stairs  with  me  on  a  voyage  of  discovery  ;  and,  in 


104  LAKE    MAHOPAC. 


a  corner  under  the  eaves  where  a  pigeon  might  be  appropriately 
lodged,  we  found  a  spot,  at  last,  that  had  neither  a  lady's  petticoat 
hanging  against  the  wall,  nor  a  gentleman's  tooth-brush  playing 
sentry  on  the  washstand.  With  the  sloping  roof  resting  on  the  tops 
of  my  toes,  here  slept  I,  and,  by  the  light  from  a  window  down  at 
the  floor,  and  as  large,  perhaps,  as  your  spacious  shirt-bosom,  my 
dear  General,  write  I  to  you  now.  Both  of  these  public  houses 
(to  dismiss  with  one  remark  the  matter  of  accommodations)  are 
in  the  two-pronged-iron-fork  stage  of  civilized  progress,  and  this 
tardy  lag  behind  the  times  is  a  little  surprising,  in  a  place  so 
beautiful  and  accessible,  and  where  a  good  hotel  would  so  cer 
tainly  "  draw." 

In  the  course  of  the  forenoon,  our  friend  Gray,  who  is  lodging 
in  a  private  house  hard  by,  drove  me  partly  around  the  Lake, 
and  to  the  summit  of  one  of  the  hills  from  which  we  could  get  a 
view  over  the  landscape.  The  country  around  looks  hard  and 
Connecticut-esque,  but  the  Mahopac  is  a  most  lovely  sheet  of 
water,  with  three  wooded  islands  in  its  bosom,  and  the  outline  of 
the  horizon  is  free  and  bold.  The  circumference  of  the  Lake  is 
about  nine  miles,  and  its  shape  offers  charming  facilities  for  boat 
ing  and  sailing.  There  are  four  other  lakes  visible  from  the  sum 
mit  of  one  of  the  »hills ;  and  it  is  a  very  remarkable  geological 
fact,  by-the-way,  that,  only  a  few  rods  from  Lake  Mahopac,  is 
another  lake,  a  mile  long  and  about  half  a  mile  wide,  the  surface 
of  which  is  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  lower  than  Lake  Mahopac  ! 
These  different  sheets  of  water  can,  all,  easily  be  made  tributary 
to  the  Croton,  so  that  Providence  seems  to  have  provided  means 
to  water  even  another  London,  should  Manhattan  wax  to  that 
size  and  necessity.  The  height  of  these  natural  reservoirs  above 
the  Hudson,  I  understand,  is  fifteen  hundred  feet. 


A    YACHT.  105 


The  courteous  commodore  of  the  yacht  Fanny,  whose  kind  in 
vitation  to  a  cruise  I  most  gladly  accepted,  landed  me  on  one  of 
the  islands,  and  another  gentleman  and  I  explored  it,  while  the 
rest  of  the  party  took  a  swim.  It  seemed  to  be  about  six  or 
eight  acres,  heavily  covered  with  wood,  and  shaped  like  the  top 
of  a  volcanic  mountain,  with  a  deep  dell,  or  crater,  in  the  centre. 
A  prettier  place  for  a  fancy  residence  (with  stables  and  farm 
house  on  the  main  land)  could  hardly  be  imagined.  My  friend 
had  sailed  his  yacht  up  the  Hudson  to  Peekskill,  and  thence, 
fifteen  miles,  she  had  been  brought  across  upon  wheels  and 
launched  for  life  upon  the  loftier  waters  of  the  Mahopac.  He 
brings  his  family  here  every  year,  and  spends  his  leisure  charm 
ingly,  in  cruising  about  among  the  islands,  fishing  and  swimming. 
I  noticed  a  considerable  number  of  small  row-boats,  pulled  about 
in  all  directions  by  young  girls  in  sun-bonnets,  and  this  fine  exer 
cise  seems  to  be  the  amusement  of  the  place,  and  one  from  which 
no  danger  whatever  is  apprehended.  The  boats  were  of  a  shape 
impossible  to  upset,  and  it  struck  me  as  a  diversion  for  children 
most  pleasant  and  reasonable. 

You  are  sitting  in  your  slippers,  "  minding  the  Doctor,"  only 
eighteen  miles  from  this  my  present  writing,  dear  Morris,  and  I 
have  been  to  the  stables  to  look  up  a  conveyance  by  which  to  get 
where  you  are  playing  the  invalid.  The  horses  are  "  all  out  hay 
ing,"  however,  and  the  easiest  way,  I  find,  to  convey  my  sympa 
thies  to  you  bodily,  is  to  return  by  railway  to  New  York  and 
steam  it  up  the  Hudson — a  hundred  miles  round,  easier  than 
eighteen  across.  As  this  place  becomes  more  frequented,  there 
will,  of  course,  be  a  plying  of  stages  to  Peekskill,  and  the  route 
to  the  city  will  be  a  little  varied. 

I  am  very  glad  to  see  the  end  of  my  letter,  for  I  write  upon  a 
5* 


106  WARM    WORK. 


washstand  in  a  triangular  garret,  and  it  will  be  a  strong  case  of 
isolation,  if  the  smell  of  hot  shingles  from  without,  and  warm 
feathers  within,  have  not  given  a  tincture  to  my  style.  G-ood- 
bye  to  you  across  the  mountains,  my  dear  invalid,  if  your  mag 
netism  can  feel  my  neighborhood  thus  far. 

Yours,  &c. 


LETTER  FROM  ERIE  RAILROAD, 

A  Thirty-Six  Hours'  Trip— Night's  Sleep  in  the  Cars — Waking  up  first  at 
the  End  of  Two  Hundred  Miles — Wonders  of  Locomotion— Country 
Tavern  at  Sunrise — Promiscuous  Bed-room — Dressing  in  the  Entry — 
Scenery  in  framed  Panels — Drive  between  Susquehannah  and  Arched  Via 
duct — Entrance  to  the  Storucco,  and  what  it  is  like — Rainbow  Bridge 
from  Cloud  to  Cloud — Chasm  of  Rent-open  Mountain — Cascade  off  Duty — 
Drive  to  Great  Bend — Much  Seen  in  little  Time,  etc.,  etc. 

As  tired  of  town  and  toil  as  nerves  and  powers  of  attention 
could  well  be,  dear  Morris,  I  flung  myself  (as  usual  of  late)  into 
the  refreshing  arms  of  the  Erie  Railroad,  the  evening  after  getting 
our  last  paper  to  press.  With  the  brief  rocking  and  fanning  of 
the  twenty  miles'  boating  to  Piermont,  I  became  quite  ready  for 
sleep  in  those  two  long  iron  arms  (which,  iron  though  they  are, 
do  the  soothing  of  arms  softer  and  shorter),  and  I  do  not  think  I 
was  conscious  of  a  thought  till  within  twenty  miles  of  the 
Susquehannah.  The  cars  that  leave  Piermont  at  evening  (to 
explain  the  soundness  of  my  repose)  are  fitted  with  reclining 
couches,  ingeniously  arranged  for  sleep  in  two  attitudes,  and  as 
most  men  leave  the  city  for  this  train  pretty  well  tired,  most 


108  MAGIC    TRAVEL. 


passengers  sleep,  from  the  Hudson  to  the  Susquehannah,  very 
soundly.  The  conductor,  if  you  are  not  practised  traveller 
enough  to  have  anticipated  him,  politely  suggests  that  you  should 
pin  your  ticket  on  your  sleeve,  or  slip  it  under  the  band  of  your 
hat,  so  that  he  need  not  wake  you  for  a  rummage  into  your 
pocket,  when  compelled,  as  usual  after  every  stopping-place,  to 
reconnoitre  for  new  comers. 

"  Here  we  leave  the  Delaware,"  said  a  voice  as  the  cars  came 
to  a  stop,  and,  thus  awoke  from  my  first  sleep,  I  stepped  out  to 
air  my  eyelids  and  get  a  breath  unpulverized  with  cinders.  It 
was  dawn,  and  the  falling  garment  of  Night  was  holding  on  by  one 
button — a  single  brilliant  star  in  the  east.  All  of  earth  that  I 
could  see  was  thickly  wooded,  producing  the  impression — (so 
deliciously  refreshing  after  a  surfeit  of  town) — of  a  new  world  in 
its  virgin  covering  of  leaves.  So  far  from  the  city,  and  how  had 
I  got  here  so  unconsciously  !  I  looked  at  my  conveyance  to 
realize  it : — two  hundred  miles,  in  a  long  row  of  houses,  and 
without  breaking  my  nap  !  That  this  ponderous  train  of  cars  had 
borne  me  hither  so  softly  and  so  swiftly  !  I  shall  not  stop 
wondering  at  railway  travelling,  I  think,  till  we  are 

"  Borne,  like  Loretto's  chapel,  thro'  the  air.;' 

My  errand,  on  this  excursion,  was  to  see  the  chasm  of  the 
Storucco — a  rocky  pass  one  hundred  and  eighty  feet  deep,  over 
which  the  railway  passes  on  a  bridge  of  a  single  arch — and  the 
village  of  Lanesboro',  two  miles  beyond,  was,  of  course,  my 
stopping-place.  I  had  persuaded  our  accomplished  friend,  Miss 

• ,  and  the  Doctor,  to  accompany  me  ;  and  the  three  of  us 

were  deposited  on  the  stoop  of  a  country  tavern  at  the  calamitous 
in-door  hour  of  five  in  the  morning.  You  image  to  yourself,  at 


OBITUARY    BREAKFAST.  109 


once,  of  course,  the  reluctant  manners  of  the  unshaved  bar 
keeper,  and  the  atmosphere  of  the  just-opened  and  unswept 
bar-room  !  Where  the  lady  was  shown  to,  I  did  not  enquire  ; 
but  the  Doctor  and  I  were  ushered  into  a  small  bed-room  where 
the  oxygen  had  been  for  some  hours  entirely  exhausted,  and 
where,  on  one  of  the  two  beds,  lay  asleep  one  of  our  promiscuous 
gender.  "  Don't  mind  him,"  said  the  barkeeper,  as  we  backed 
out  from  the  intrusion,  "it's  only  a  friend  of  mine  !" — but  even 
with  this  expressive  encouragement,  and  a  glance  at  the  sleeper's 
boots,  which  gave  us  a  conventional  confirmation  that  he  was  a 
man  not  to  be  "  minded,"  we  persisted  in  leaving  the  sleeper  to 
his  privacy.  Our  accommodator  then  offered  to  "  bring  us  the 
fixin's"  for  a  toilet  in  the  entry,  which  we  at  once  accepted, 
dressing  with  a  murderous  look-out  upon  the  slaughter  of  the 
chickens  for  our  breakfast.  I  daguerreotype  these  details,  and 
similar  ones,  of  things  and  manners  as  they  are,  foreseeing  that 
railroads  will  soon  irrigate  the  country  with  refinements,  in 
contrast  with  which  these  primitive  sketches  may  be  curious. 

After  a  sort  of  obituary  breakfast,  on  the  chickens  we  had  seen 
slain  and  the  "  deeds  they  had  left  behind  them"  in  the  shape  of 
an  orphan  egg  or  two,  we  started  in  a  rough  wagon  for  the 
cascade.  The  way  thither  lay  between  a  glory  of  Art  and  a  glory 
of  Nature,  for,  on  our  left,  lay  the  Susquehannah  in  one  of  its 
finest  passages  of  beauty,  and,  on  our  right,  the  magnificent 
viaduct,  high  in  the  air,  by  which  the  railroad  descends  to  the 
valley  level.  Sky  and  mountains,  seen  under  a  range  of  lofty 
arches,  are  like  a  series  of  stupendous  panels  of  landscape  on  the 
wall  of  a  gigantic  cathedral — and  those  who  have  not  stood  on 
the  Campagiyi  of  Rome,  at  the  base  of  the  great  Aqueducts,  and 
looked  off  towards  Albano,  with  the  mountains  divided  and  framed 


110  VIADUCT    LIKE   A    RAINBOW. 

into  pictures  by  these  massive  lines  of  architecture,  may  here  see 
effects  even  bolder  and  finer. 

The  entrance  to  the  Storucco  reminded  me  of  a  call  I  once 
made  upon  a  lady  in  Venice— my  gondolier  gliding  into  the  very 
centre  of  the  tall  pala-ce  in  which  she  lived,  by  a  dark  canal 
leading  to  a  stair  on  the  water  level.  The  road  turns  into  the 
Storucco  at  the  point  where  the  stream  comes  to  the  Susque- 
hannah,  and  the  beauty  of  the  place  is  reached  by  a  long  ascent. 
The  glen  itself  is  fine  enough  to  repay  a  journey  from  New  York 
to  see — a  fissure  of  a  cracked-open  mountain,  with  two  or  three 
different  streams  pouring  into  it — but  the  look  upward,  as  you 
stand  between  two  sky-reaching  precipices,  spanned  across  at  the 
top  by  a  single  arch,  is  truly  most  impressive.  A  rainbow,  turned 
into  a  railroad  bridge  for  the  passing  of  a  chasm  between  two 
clouds,  would  certainly  look  no  more  remarkable. 

A  friend  of  mine  in  the  Navy  calls  brandy  and  water  "  a  fine 
institution,"  and,  if  I  had  had  more  of  two  "  institutions"  foj 
which  I  will  borrow  the  phrase — time  and  a  sandwich— I  should 
have  been  delighted  to  make  a  day's  exploration  of  the  Storucco. 
It  looks  like  a  far-reaching  cavern  of  the  picturesque,  of  which 
we  saw  only  the  entrance — grandeur  and  darkness  tempting 
powerfully  on.  Of  the  cascade  we  could  hardly  judge,  the  long 
drought  having  reduced  its  sheet  to  a  mere  trickle  down  the  face 
of  the  rock ;  but  a  fall  of  such  a  depth,  and  into  such  a  chasm  of 
darkness,  must  be  magnificent  at  some  seasons.  We  mounted  to 
the  bridge  and  looked  over  into  the  deep  fissure  which  it  spans. 
It  is  a  startling  wonder  of  mechanism,  and  the  most  educated 
man  may,  at  first  sight,  marvel  how  it  was  thrown  over.  .The 
men  at  work  upon  it  while  we  were  there,  looked  so  like  ants,  as 


A    KIND    LANDLORD.  Ill 


we  saw  them  from  the  base,  that  it  seemed  impossible  the  bridge 
could  be  the  work  of  creatures  of  their  size. 

We  had  a  curiosity  to  follow  the  bank  of  the  Susquehannah  to 
Great  Bend,  nine  miles,  and  our  landlord,  (who  kindly  thought 
us  worthy  of  trout  and  venison,  and  promised  to  send  to  me  in  the 
city  what  we  should  by  rights  have  eaten  at  Lanesboro',)  gave  us 
a  sort  of  top-less  omnibus,  and  a  pair  of  hardy  little  horses,  with 
which  we  made  the  trip  very  comfortably.  The  scenery  is  much 
finer,  this  way,  than  seen  from  the  window  of  a  rail-car.  The 
reaches  of  view,  fore  and  after,  were  of  perpetual  beauty. ,  My 
companions,  who  had  not  been  in  this  part  of  the  country  before, 
felt  abundantly  repaid  for  their  trouble  in  coming,  and  stayed  at 
Great  Bend,  to  return,  the  next  day,  with  daylight,  to  see  the 
Delaware. 

Obliged,  myself,  to  be  in  town  the  next  morning,  I  took  the 
evening  train,  and  slept  over  the  track  again  most  comfortably,  all 
the  way  to  Piermont,  having  passed  a  long  and  delightful  day 
two  hundred  miles  from  the  city,  and  yet  absent  from  it, 
altogether,  but  thirty-six  hours  !  Things  are  getting  handy,  in 
these  days,  my  dear  General ! 

Yours,  here  and  there. 


LETTER  FROM  COZZENS'S  HOTEL, 

Name  of  the  Place  whence  the  Letter  is  Dated — Cozzens's  new  Hotel— 
Cloven-Rock  Road— Waterfall  Ladder — Fanny  Kemble's  Bath — Weir's 
Chapei — General  and  Mrs.  Scott — River-God's  Hair — Theory  of  June 
and  August — Charade  by  a  Distinguished  Hand. 

,  June,  1849. 


You  will  see  by  my  erasures,  dear  Morris,  that  I  have  tried 
hard  to  date  my  letter  with  a  word  descriptive  of  the  place  where 
it  is  written.  Like  most  new  things,  babies  included,  this  new 
resort,  which  is  still  in  its  infancy,  goes  by  the  handiest  name — 
but,  as  there  is  a  time  when  "  poppet"  or  "  blessing"  is  formally 
exchanged  for  John  or  Thomas,  so  should  we  be  thinking  of  the 
period  when  "  New  West  Point  Hotel,"  or  "  Cozzens's  West 
Point  Hotel,"  should  be  graced  with  an  appellation  both  more 
distinctive  and  more  ambitious.  Grudging,  as  I  mortally  do,  any 
time  wasted  on  in-door  work  in  June,  I  am  not  going  to  throw 
away  the  half-hour  for  which  I  have  bothered  my  brains  with  this 
matter,  and  shall  therefore  record,  in  print  that  "  will  pay,"  my 
bibliographical,  geographical  and  euphonious  ransack  for  a  name 
to  this  Hotel. 

"  West  Point  Hotel"  it  is  not — though  it'  sits  in  the  high  lap 


HIGHLAND    TERRACE. 


of  the  same  West  Point  Mountain — for  the  old  and  well-known 
Hotel  of  that  name  is  still  in  existence,  and,  as  the  landings  to 
the  two  places  are  but  a  short  distance  apart,  it  would  be  a  con 
stant  embarrassment  to  strangers,  if,  in  their  names,  there  were 
even  a  resemblance.  Then  the  old  West  Point  Hotel  having 
been  made  famous  by  Cozzens's  keeping,  the  name  of  "  Cozzens's 
West  Point  Hotel"  would  of  course  lead  the  remembering  public 
only  to  the  old  and  upper  landing.  Palpable  mis-namings  as 
these  evidently  are,  however,  the  beautiful  place  from  which  I 
write  is  known  at  present,  by  no  other. 

To  find  a  name,  then,  and  a  descriptive  one :  Let  us  look 
first  into  its  geographic  peculiarities. 

The  new  Hotel  stands  within  the  portals  of  the  Highlands,  with 
mountains  enough,  between  it  and  New  York,  to  insure  the 
change  of  climate  so  healthful  in  the  resorts  of  residents  on  the 
sea-board ;  and,  if  this  were  its  only  great  advantage,  it  might  be 
called,  with  descriptive  propriety,  the  Transalpine  Hotel — a 
name  neither  unmusical  nor  inexpressive.  Its  leading  attraction, 
however,  in  the  way  of  position,  is  the  lofty  bank  on  which  it 
stands — the  grounds  of  the  house  occupying  a  highland  terrace, 
one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  above  the  river,  and  the  magnificent 
mountain  which  rises  immediately  behind  it  seeming  literally  to 
hold  Cozzens  and  his  caravanserai  in  its  leafy  lap.  For  position 
merely,  Highland  Terrace  would  be  a  name  tolerably  expressive. 

But,  in  creating  an  access  to  the  place  from  the  river,  there 
was  an  enterprise  shown  by  Mr.  Cozzens,  that  would  not  be  un 
duly  commemorated  in  its  name.  Two  years  ago,  a  precipitous 
rockrof  near  two  hundred  feet,  "set  its  face"  against  any  ap 
proach  to  the  spot  from  the  river ;  and  the  engineer,  first  con 
sulted  as  to  the  cost  of  a  wharf  at  the  foot  of  this  perpendicular 


114  BUTTERMILK    FALLS. 


wall,  thought  Mr.  Cozzens  a  little  "  out  of  his  mind."  Carriages, 
now,  wind  easily  from  its  base  to  its  summit — a  spiral  road  hav 
ing  been  blown  out  of  the  flinty  mountain' side,  and  the  broad 
track,  up  which  a  four-horse  omnibus  goes  with  a  trot,  being  as 
smooth  as  the  Russ  Pavement  in  Broadway.  It  struck  me  that 
Cloven-Hock  Hotel  would  describe  this  feature  pretty  fairly,  and 
as  the  road  up  is  most  picturesquely  seen  from  the  river,  it  would 
have  a  certain  finger-post  indicativeness  that  is  desirable. 

The  most  enjoyable  peculiarity  of  the  scenery  is  still  unnamed, 
however.  The  thickly-wooded  banks  of  a  bright,  rocky  and 
musical  brook — with  a  descent  so  rapid  that,  at  every  few  feet, 
you  come  to  a  mimic  waterfall — tempt  you  from  the  hotel- 
grounds  to  a  long  ramble  up  the  valley  in  the  rear.  There  is 
nothing  one  wants  more,  at  a  public  place,  than  the  neighbor 
hood  of  just  such  a  shaded  brook — to  escape  to,  from  too  much 
society ;  to  seek  with  a  book  or  a  pencil ;  to  muse  by,  in  idleness  ; 
to  track  with  friends,  one  or  more,  and,  with  the  delicious  accom 
paniment  of  swift  running  water,  talk  philosophy  or  love.  It  is  a 
clean,  clear,  darkly-shaded  mountain  rivulet,  picturesque  at 
every  inch  of  its  way,  and  worthy,  in  itself,  of  a  name  and  a 
moderate  immortality.  It  is  better  known  in  its  death  than  in 
its  life  ;  for,  though  few  ever  heard  of  the  portion  of  its  course  I 
have  been  describing,  everybody  has  seen  where  it  slides  over  a 
rock,  a  hundred  feet  into  the  Hudson,  and  by  the  name  (oh 
cacophonous  horror  !)  of  "  Buttermilk  Falls  !"  It  would  truly 
describe  this  pretty  stream  to  call  it  Waterfall  Ladder,  and,  if 
the  Hotel  (of  which  it  is  but  a  musical  corridor)  could  afford  to 
be  named  after  so  lesser  an  appendage,  we  might  descriptively 
call  it  Shady  Brook  Hotel.  Hudson  Terrace  is  a  well  sounding 
name  of  which  it  is  capable,  also  ;  or,  as  the  Eagle  Valley  opens 


ROBERT   WEIR.  115 


behind  it,  it  might  be  called  Eagle  Valley  Hotel ;  or,  as  Fort 
Putnam  stands  on  the  same  side  of  it  from  West  Point,  it  might 
with  propriety  be  called  Fort  Putnam  Hotel. 

Thus  much  of  geographical  reasons  for  names  ;  but  there  are 
one  or  two  belongings  of  moral  sentiment  to  tHe  spot,  which 
should  at  least  be  mentioned  among  its  claims  of  nomenclature. 

Within  a  stone's  throw  from  the  portico  of  the  Hotel,  upon  a 
knoll  half  hidden  with  trees,  stands  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
structures,  of  its  kind,  in  this  country — a  stone  church,  of  Eng 
lish  rural  architecture,  built  by  the  painter  Robert  Weir.  The 
story  of  its  construction  is  a  touching  poem.  When  Mr.  Weir 
received  ten  thousand  dollars  from  Government,  for  his  picture 
on  the  panel  of  the  Capitol,  he  invested  it,  untouched,  for  the 
benefit  of  his  three  children.  On  the  death  of  these  children — 
all  three — soon  after,  the  money  reverted  to  him,  but  he  had  a 
feeling  which  forbade  him  to  use  it.  Struck  with  the  favorable- 
ness  of  this  knoll  under  the  mountains,  as  a  site  for  a  place  of 
worship,  much  needed  by  the  village  near  by,  he  applied  for  it  to 
Mr.  Cozzens,  on  whose  property  it  stood,  and  who  at  once  made 
a  free  gift  of  it  for  the  purpose.  The  painter's  taste  and  heart 
were  set  to  work,  and,  with  the  money  left  him  by  his  children, 
and  contributions  from  General  Scott  and  others,  he  erected  this 
simple  and  beautiful  structure,  in  a  memorial  of  hallowed  utility. 
Its  bell  for  evening  service  sounded  a  few  minutes  ago — the  tone 
selected,  apparently,  with  the  taste  which  governed  all,  and  mak 
ing  sweet  music  among  the  mountains  that  look  down  upon  it. 
From  this  beautiful  vicinage,  in  the  sentiment  of  which  Mr. 
Cozzens's  liberal  gift  makes  him  a  partaker,  his  house  might  be 
called,  if  there  were  no  name  more  appropriate,  Woods-chapel 
Hotel* 

*  Mr.  Weir  named  it  "  The  Church  of  the  Holy  Innocents." 


116  WEST    POINT    ASSOCIATIONS. 


There  is  still  another  feeling,  separate  from  the  scenery,  and 
perhaps  the  strongest  with  Mr.  Cozzens  himself,  which  might  de 
cide  the  naming  of  his  house.  The  ground  on  which  it  stands  is 
part  of  property  he  purchased  while  the  old  West  Point  Hotel 
was  in  his  hands,  and,  being  only  a  mile  from  the  military  college, 
it  is  associated  inseparably,  in  his  mind,  with  a  West  Point 
character  and  locality.  He  exercised  so  successfully,  and  for  so 
long,  the  commissariat  functions  of  the  Army  at  this,  its  most 
romantic  starting-post,  and  his  hotel  in  New  York  was  so  com 
pletely  the  home  and  rendezvous  of  officers  and  cadets,  that  he  is 
essentially  an  "  army  man" — totally  unwilling  that  the  distance 
of  but  a  mile  from  his  old  and  favorite  quarters  should  deprive 
him  of  his  brevet  of  West  Point  associations.  In  fact,  the  mile 
between  his  hotel  and  the  parade-ground,  along  the  bank  of  the 
Hudson,  is  so  lovely  and  beguiling,  that  it  may  well  seem,  in  its 
whole  length,  but  a  promenade  of  the  Cadet  College  itself. 
Now,  of  all  this,  to  suit  Mr.  Cozzens,  the  name  of  his  new  house 
should  have  an  indicating  relish.  What  would  comprise  it,  and 
still  be  distinctive  and  musical,  I  cannot  cudgel  out  of  my  brains 
at  this  moment ;  but  there  is  a  circumstance  which  gives,  at  least, 
room  for  a  suggestion.  The  first  guest  at  this,  his  new  hotel,  was 
the  great  soldier  who  is  now  at  the  head  of  our  army,  General 
Scott ;  and  his  singularly  gifted  family  are  here,  the  guests  for 
the  summer.  Besides  the  General's  identification  with  all  that 
belongs  to  the  army,  Mrs.  Scott,  as  you  know,  is  the  admired  and 
counselling  Egeria  of  the  youthful  sword  and  epaulette — with  the 
cadets  of  West  Point,  as  with  the  officers  of  the  army,  a  Queen 
elect  of  deference  and  devotion.  In  all  tribute  to  her  husband's 
glory,  she  is  of  course  a  sharer  ;  but  her  influence  at  the  Point, 
makes  it  fitter  for  her  sharing,  if  offered  to  him  here.  There 


CHIPPEWA.  117 

chances  to  be  a  fine  bold  word,  which,  notwithstanding  General 
Scott's  greater  achievements  since,  is  a  synonym  for  his  name  on 
his  country's  lip — Chippewa.  To  call  this  palace  of  a  house, 
with  its  beautiful  associations  and  surroundings,  THE  CHIPPEWA, 
would  therefore,  it  seems  to  me,  express  all  which,  by  this  last 
array  of  reasons  at  least,  is  demanded  in  a  name. 

I  thought,  when  I  began,  that  I  should  dispose  of  this  part  of 
my  letter  in  a  paragraph — but  "  what's  in  a  name"  is  sometimes 
a  pregnant  question.  In  discussing  the  word  for  my  date,  how 
ever,  I  have  outlined,  pretty  fairly,  the  scenery  which  was  to  be 
the  theme  of  my  letter,  and  with  a  touch  or  two  of  the  pencil 
upon  slighted  points,  I  shall  give  you  a  sufficiently  completed 
picture.  „. 

The  knowledge  of  comfort,  which  Mr.  Cozzens  has  gained  by 
long  experience  as  u  mine  host,"  has  been  successfully  brought 
into  play  in  the  structure  of  this  hotel.  It  is  full  of  conveniences 
and  luxuries,  and  even  the  fastidious  would  be  puzzled  to  name  a 
want  unprovided  for.  The  show  portion  of  the  house — a  second 
ary  consideration,  of  course — is  only  a  little  too  splendid  for  my 
taste  in  the  country.  The  costly  carpets,  rosewood  and  marble 
tables,  satin  furniture  and  profusion  of  the  largest  mirrors  and 
elaborate  gilding,  make  of  it  a  palace  that  might  be  appropriate 
enough  for  Queen  Victoria,  but  which  was  scarce  needed  here. 
Even  if,  (as  is  likely  enough,)  it  was  Mr.  Cozzens's  sagacious 
guess  at  what  would  attract  republican  custom,  I  should  have 
liked  to  see  a  house  which  was  sure  to  be  the  perfection  of  com 
fort,  setting  an  example  of  simplicity  in  its  ornament.  Of  the 
exterior  no  one  could  complain,  the  model  of  the  building  being 
most  proportionate  and  imposing,  and  the  portico,  or  covered 
ambulatory  encircling  the  lower  story,  being  singularly  elegant. 


118  FANNY    KEMBLE'S    BATH. 


Thinking,  of  course,  that  Mr.  Cozzens  had  been  indebted  to  a 
very  clever  architect  for  his  plan  and  the  proportions  of  his  rooms, 
I  inquired,  and  found  the  designs  to  be  his  own. 

The  views,  up  and  down  the  Hudson,  from  the  terrace  lawn 
and  the  bold  bluff  a  few  steps  beyond,  are  the  perfection  of  pic 
turesque  scenery ;  and,  from  this  same  bluff,  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  the  colonnade,  you  look  down  upon  what  is  profaned  by 
the  name  of  Buttermilk  Falls — a  lace  veil  over  the  face  of  an 
else  bare  precipice  of  a  hundred  feet.  The  whole  descent  is 
broken  into  two  cascades,  by  the  way ;  and,  from  the  bluff,  they 
look  like  the  backs  of  two  river-gods,  climbing  up  the  mountain 
with  their  white  hair  streaming  behind  them. 

With  the  three  ladies  who  formed  my  party  from  New  York, 
and  an  English  friend  and  his  companion,  whom  I  met  yesterday, 
to  my  most  agreeable  surprise,  at  the  foot  of  the  Falls,  I  paid  a 
visit  to  the  glen  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  known  now  by 
the  name  of  "  Fanny  Kemble's  Bath."  "  Indian  Falls,"  as  it 
was  formerly  called,  was  a  frequent  resort  of  the  energetic 
lecturess  when  residing  at  West  Point  and  pulling  about  the 
river  in  a  skiff;  and,  as  those  were  days  when  it  was  compara 
tively  unknown,  she  had  its  shaded  rocks  and  waters  uninter 
ruptedly  to  herself.  It  is  a  spot  from  which  the  sky  is  almost 
shut  out — three  sides  of  rocks  and  leaves  and  one  side  of  water 
fall  closing  it  in — and  the  prettiest  place  conceivable  to  pic-nic 
in,  and  pass  the  day.  Mr.  Cozzens  took  us  over  in  his  boat,  and 
u  posted  us  up,"  with  his  never-failing  vivacity  and  agreeable- 
ness,  in  its  legends  of  the  old  time  and  love-stories  of  the  new. 

Bless  me,  what  a  delicious  month  June  is  !  The  world  to-day 
seems  quite  new — no  remembrance  of  last  year's  June  having  in 
the  least  anticipated  or  dulled  its  complete  novelty  of  freshness. 


THEORY    OF   SEASONS.  119 

•• 
I  am  inclined    to  think,   dear   Morris,  that   the  wheel  of  our 

weather,  in  the  course  of  its  annual  revolution,  dips  into  the 
climate  of  heaven,  and  that  the  intersection  takes  place  in  June. 
What  warmer  world  it  passes  on  and  intersects  later — say  in 
mid- August — is  slightly  indicated,  perhaps,  by  the  expressions 
with  which  the  profane  accost  each  other  in  that  season — but, 
either  to  find  heaven  in  June,  or  escape  the  resemblance  of  New 
York  to  "  the  other  place"  in  August,  I  should  name  this  Hotel 
of  many  charms  as  the  best  possible  resort.  For  his  skill  in  the 
art  of  life,  pleasant  companionship  included,  its  enterprising  mas 
ter  is  well  entitled  to  a  diploma. 

My  next  excursion  will  be  to  a  beautiful  spot  I  hear  of,  but 
have  not  seen,  upon  the  Erie  Railroad,  and,  meantime,  adieu. 


LETTER  FROM  GREENWOOD  LAKE, 

A  VAGUE  rumor  of  a  new  place  of  summer  resort,  of  which  we 
could  find  no  advertisement,  nor  get  any  definite  description, 
tempted  us  to  slip  from  our  editorial  harness,  last  week,  and  take 
a  sniff  of  fresh  air  and  discovery.  That  there  was  a  u  Greenwood 
Lake/'  somewhere  between  Orange  and  Hockland  counties — 
somewhere  between  Goshen  and  Newburg — that  a  hotel  had 
lately  been  opened  on  its  shore  for  summer  custom,  and  that  it 
was  to  be  reached  by  the  milk-and-butter  avenue  of  Chester 
Valley,  was  all  that  "  general  information"  could  furnish,  as  to 
its  whereabout  and  accommodations.  Just  at  this  time,  conver 
sation  runs  mainly  on  these  places  of  resort,  and  we  presume, 
therefore,  that  some  more  definite  description  will  be  of  interest 
to  our  readers. 

To  begin  with  what  you  might  else  skip  to  find  : — Greenwood 
Lake  is  sixty-five  miles  distant  from  New  York,  and  the  cost  of 
reaching  Chester,  ten  miles  from  it,  is  one  dollar  and  five  cents, 
by  the  Erie  Railroad.  By  the  train,  whose  passengers  leave 
New  York  in  the  Thomas  Powell,  (foot  of  Duane-st.,)  at  five, 
P.  M.,  you  arrive  at  Chester  at  nine  in  the  evening.  An  open 
wagon  takes  you  hence  to  the  Lake  in  an  hour  and  a  half,  or 


AFTERNOON    EXCURSION.  121 

two  hours,  price  one  dollar — road  rather  rough  and  wagon-springs 
altogether  unmerciful — and  a  large  and  showy  hotel  receives  you 
on  the  edge  of  the  water.  Thus  much  for  statistics,  a  la  Guide 
Book. 

The  "  Thomas  Powell"  did  the  twenty  miles  to  Piermont,  as 
usual,  in  an  hour  and  a  quarter,  and — apropos — as  she  returns  the 
same  evening,  by  half-past  nine,  and  serves  an  admirable  supper 
on  board,  what  more  delightful  excursion  could  there  be  than 
this  her  daily  trip  ?  She  remains  at  Piermont  two  hours,  and, 
Irving's  residence  being  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river,  and  a 
ferry  across  just  established,  a  look  at  Sunny-side  and  Sleepy 
Hollow  might  be  included  in  the  evening's  pleasure. 

[Let  us  insert,  here,  a  suggestion  to  omnibus  proprietors. 
Considering  the  crowds  of  passengers  landing  continually  from 
the  ferries  and  steamers,  why  would  it  not  "  pay"  to  run  a  line 
along  t/ie  water-side,  from  the  Battery  to  Canal-street,  and  so  up 
to  Broadway  ?  At  present,  the  gauntlet  of  insolent  drivers  that 
one  has  to  run,  to  get  ashore,  and  the  alternative,  at  your  own 
door,  between  an  imposition  or  a  quarrel  with  hack  drivers,  are 
the  disagreeable  accompaniments  of  arrival ;  and  vex  strangers, 
while  they  deter  many  citizens  from  making  excursions  at  all. 
Giving  his  ticket  to  a  systemized  company  for  delivering  baggage, 
the  passenger  might  then  take  the  omnibus,  and  the  mere 
possibility  of  this  escape  from  their  extortions,  would  make 
drivers  both  more  civil  and  more  honest.] 

Of  the  rail  road  track  of  unparalleled  beauty  of  scenery, 
between  Piermont  and  Chester,  we  shall  have  more  to  say,  when 
we  have  rambled  on  foot,  as  we  mean  to  do  this  summer,  all  over 
the  miniature  Switzerland  threaded  by  the  Ramapo  river.  Let 
the  lover  of  the  beautiful,  (without  contenting  himself  with  a 
6 


122  GREENWOOD    LAKE. 

look  from  one  window,  and  at  one  side,  only,)  place  himself  at  the 
end  of  the  last  car,  and,  riding  backwards,  watch  his  path  as  he 
speeds  along.  It  is  a  rapid  succession  of  exquisite  surprises  for 
the  eye,  each  one  of  the  thousands  of  which  would  be  a  picture 
well  worth  preserving.  The  hint  is  enough,  for  those  who  have 
the  taste  to  care  for  what  is  lovely. 

Greenwood  Lake  Hotel  has  the  usual  mistakes  of  taste  which 
such  places  invariably  have,  in  our  country — too  much  white 
paint,  portico,  parlor,  piano,  and .  pretension,  and  too  little  of 
what  the  needless  excess  in  such  ostentation  would  easily  have 
bought.  As  the  house  and  its  appurtenances  are  at  present 
arranged,  there  is  a  want  of  refinement  which  would  alone  prevent 
any  delicate  person  from  staying  there  at  all.  But  the  capabili 
ties  of  the  location  are  great.  The  Lake  is  nine  miles  in  length, 
and  spreads  away  in  a  vast  oblong  mirror  to  the  West,  the  high 
hills  which  frame  it  are  of  fresh  green  forest,  and  the  shape  of  the 
valley,  in  which  it  lies,  is  such,  that  the  Hotel  lies  in  a  tunnel  for 
the  wind,  and  there  is  always  a  breeze  in  summer.  With  singular 
dulness  to  taste  and  convenience,  the  proprietor  has  set  his  house 
at  a  long  distance  from  any  shade,  and  the  visitors  who  should  go 
out  when  the  sun  were  high,  would  be  broiled  before  they  could 
get  to  the  woods.  This  makes  the  place  uninhabitable  for 
children.  The  one  negro  waiter,  who  had  a  ludicrous  habit  of 
concluding  every  sentence  he  uttered  with  "  and  so  forth," 
betrayed  the  effect  of  this  want  of  shade,  in  his  account  of  the 
habits  of  the  house,  given  to  us  at  our  solitary  breakfast. 

"  How  do  people  amuse  themselves  here  ?"  we  asked. 

"  In  the  morning,"  he  said,  "  the  ladies  ride  a-horseback,  etc. 
In  the  evening,  they  walk,  and  go  out  sailing,  etc." 

"  And  what  do  they  do,  during  the  day  ?"  we  inquired,  hoping 


CONSTRUCTION    OF    HOTELS.  123 

to  hear  of  some  excursion  to  waterfall,  or  wood,  or  glen,  or  some 
other  escape  from  paint  and  whitewash. 

"  Oh,  in  the  day-time,  Sir,  the  ladies  don't  do  nothing,  except 
lay  pretty  still ,  etc." 

When  will  the  builders  of  new  summer  resorts  learn  that  good 
mattresses  and  linen  sheets  are  more  attractive  than  columns  and 
porticoes,  and  that  the  close  neighborhood  of  woods  is  indispensa 
ble  ?  When  will  they  civilize  to  decency  in  the  construction  of 
the  house,  and  trust  less  exclusively  to  the  showiness  of  the  parlor 
furniture,  for  in-door  attraction  ?  With  half  what  this  hotel  has 
cost,  a  house  on  Greenwood  Lake  might  have  been  one  of  the 
most  desirable  places  of  resort  in  the  country.  As  it  is,  we 
should  suppose  no  person  who  had  any  idea  of  comfort  would 
stay  there  a  day. 

Yours,  &c. 


LETTER  FROM  RAMAPO, 

KAMAPO  VALLEY,  (Erie  Railroad,)  July  2. 

DEAR  MORRIS  : — "  Far  enough  away  for  a  letter"  is  a 
measurement  essentially  altered,  of  late,  by  rail  road  and 
telegraph.  Though  forty  or  fifty  miles  from  you,  it  seems  almost 
absurd  to  write,  when  I  could  go  to  you  in  an  hour  and  a  half. 
"  Away  from  home"  is  a  comparative  thing,  after  all — since  a 
tortoise  would  measure  it  at  twenty  feet,  and  a  bird  at  twenty 
miles.  An  advertisement,  in  a  New  York  paper,  of  "  a  country- 
seat  in  this  vicinity,"  formerly  meant  a  place  within  five  miles. 
As  about  one  hour  distant  was  thus  implied,  and  you  may  now  go 
thirty  miles  in  the  same  hour,  "  this  vicinity"  is  a  phrase  of  six 
times  as  much  meaning.  The  express  train,  on  the  English 
railroads,  go,  regularly,  sixty  miles  in  the  hour  ;  and  as  things 
progress,  we  may  as  well  call  this  Ramapo  Valley  a  suburb  of 
New  York,  for  such  it  will  be,  shortly — (within  half  an  hour  of 
Hoboken,  that  is  to  say) — though  a  valley  in  Norway  or  Sweden 
is,  at  present,  hardly  less  known  or  thought  of. 

I  had  been  so  impressed  with  the  glimpses  of  romantic  scenery, 
which  I  caught  in  whirling  through  the  sixteen  miles  of  this 


COMPARATIVE  SUBURB.  135 


valley  in  the  rail-cars,  that  I  longed  to  traverse  it  with  a  loco 
motive  whose  lungs  and  legs  would  give  out,  and  wheels  not  yet 
disenfranchised  from  hills,  ruts,  and  pebble-stones.  The  hottest 
day  of  the  summer,  thus  far,  was  the  one  when  I  found  the 
leisure ;  and,  as  the  trip  commenced  with  a  cool  and  refreshing 
rush  into  the  breeze's  arms  (with  the  swift  course  of  the  "  Thomas 
Powell"  up  the  river,)  your  sufferance  of  the  heat,  that  day,  was 
at  least  three  hours  longer  than  mine.  I  regretted  that  I  had  not 
brought  you  with  me  as  far  as  Piermont ;  for  this  delightful  boat, 
which  leaves  at  five,  gets  back  to  New  York  a  little  after  nine  ; 
and  you  can  have,  thus,  four  hours  of  cool  comfort  and  beautiful 
scenery,  without  losing  any  important  portion  of  the  day  in  the 
city.  Think  of  the  cheapness  of  luxuries,  by  the  way,  when  this 
lovely  evening  trip,  twenty  miles  up  the  river  and  back,  is  paid 
for  with  a  couple  of  shillings  ! 

The  Ramapo  Ravine,  of  sixteen  miles,  is  a  wild  mountain 
vestibule  to  the  open  country  of  Orange  County  beyond.  Our 
milk  and  butter,  eggs  and  poultry,  come  out,  by  this  long, 
shadowy  entry,  from  the  fertile  plains  where  they  are  produced. 
I  had  taken  a  fancy  to  a  stopping-place  at  the  extremity  of  this 
porch  of  mountains — not  from  any  recommendation,  except  what 
was  contained  in  the  looks  of  a  very  large  and  fine-looking  land-, 
lord — and  here  I  proposed  to  sleep  and  find  a  vehicle  to  return 
leisurely  through  the  valley  the  next  morning.  This  station — 
"  Turner's" — we  reached  at  a  little  after  eight,  and,  as  the  cars 
stop  here,  "  fifteen  minutes  for  refreshments,"  it  seemed,  for  that 
space  of  time,  very  little  like  a  place  for  a  quiet  night.  Two 
hundred  people,  laying  in  what  coffee  and  tea,  pies  and  crackers, 
would  suffice  them  for  a  night's  journey,  make  a  confusion  that, 
you  think,  might  last.  But  "  all  aboard,"  and  two  or  three  pant- 


126  TURNER'S. 


ings  of  the  engine,  and  away  they  go — leaving  their  half-drank 
coffee  and  tea,  and  their  half-eaten  segments  of  pie — and  the 
crickets  are  again  heard  outside  the  door,  and  all  is  rural  and  un 
disturbed.  Would  that  a  rail-track  could  be  laid  through  the 
mind,  to  dismiss  its  turmoils  with  as  expeditious  a  completeness ! 

The  road,  at  this  place,  runs  above  the  roof  of  an  old  mill, 
with  an  old-fashioned  tavern  just  below  it,  and  the  refectory, 
perched  up  alongside  of  the  rails,  seems  not  to  have  modified, 
essentially,  the  "entertainment  for  man  and  horse."  I  found  a 
country  bed,  with  country  accommodations,  and  most  civil  and 
obliging  people ;  and  the  old  horse,  destined  for  my  next  day's 
explorations,  had  been  "  twenty-three  years  in  the  family."  In 
the  course  of  chat,  before  going  to  bed,  f  learned  that  the  woods 
are  full  of  game ;  that  the  lakes,  near  by,  are  full  of  pickerel ; 
that  a  man  sees,  on  an  average,  a  couple  of  hundred  snakes 
"  round  there"  in  a  summer,  and  that  board,  in  that  region,  is 
about  three  dollars  a  week.  People  are  beginning  to  come  out 
from  the  city  to  pass  the  summer  months  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  there  are  several  farm-houses  in  the  village  two  miles  beyond, 
(Monroe  Village,)  where  they  are  ready  to  take  lodgers. 

My  drive  down  the  Ramapo,  for  twelve  miles,  the  next  day, 
was  the  opening  of  a  many-leaved  book — as  delicious  a  volume  of 
scenery  as  the  unbound  library  of  Nature  has  to  show.  So 
winding  is  the  river,  and  so  capricious  the  road,  that  every  few 
feet  bring  you  to  a  new  scene,  with  exhaustless  novelty  of 
combination,  and  a  singularly  picturesque  character  to  all.  The 
mountains  are  boldly  crowded  together.;  the  bright  little  river 
distributes  its  silver  lakelets,  and  inlays  its  sparkling  rapids,  as  if 
on  purpose  to  please  an  artist ;  the  foliage  is  dense  and  luxuriant 
to  the  tops  of  the  mountains ;  and  the  edge  of  the  horizon,  near 


TOWNSEND  TRACT.  127 


by,  on  every  side,  is  in  all  varieties  of  eccentric  grace  and  bold 
ness.  The  Ramapo  valley  is  really  one  of  Nature's  loveliest 
caprices,  and  its  divine  pictures  will,  one  day,  be  made  classic  by 
pen  and  pencil. 

The  most  picturesque  point  of  this  long  and  winding  ravine,  is 
near  the  outlet  of  Tuxeto  Lake — a  bright  stream  that  comes  in 
from  a  beautiful  sheet  of  water  by  this  name,  a  little  way  back 
among  the  mountains.  There  is,  here,  a  rocky  cleft  in  the 
river's  bed,  through  which  rush  a  succession  of  waterfall-rapids, 
and — (curiously  unexpected  in  so  wild  a  spot) — the  scene  is  here 
completed  for  the  artist's  eye,  by  the  broken  arches  of  some  fine 
old  ruins !  They  are  the  remains  of  very  extensive  iron-works, 
formerly  in  operation  here,  and,  as  their  site,  of  course,  was 
chosen  for  the  water-power,  the  crumbling  walls  are  in  the  finest 
position  for  effect. 

The  whole  valley  of  the  Ramapo  has  but  three  or  four  owners. 
The  tract  of  many  thousand  acres,  belonging  to  Mr.  Peter 
Townsend,  is  the  largest.  Mr.  McFarlan,  the  former  member  of 
the  Legislature,  owns  an  exquisitely  lovely  portion  of  it.  The 
Lorillard  family  have  another  tract,  and,  further  down  toward 
Ramapo  village,  the  valley  spreads  into  a  charming  lap  of 
mingled  culture  and  mountain  scenery,  called  Sloatsburg.  Two 
or  three  gentlemen  of  the  name  of  Sloat  reside  here  ;  and,  with 
great  taste  and  enterprise,  they  have  surrounded  their  fine 
residences  with  every  look  of  prosperity  and  comfort.  The 
pretty  village  around  them  has  one  peculiarity — there  is  no 
tavern,  and  consequently  no  loungers  nor  any  look  of  travel,  and 
the  whole  place  has  a  most  captivating  and  park-like  aspect  of 
privacy. 

Sloatsburg  was  the  termination  of  my  twelve-mile  ride,  and, 


128  A  LITTLE  SWITZERLAND. 


hitherto,  Mr.  McFarlan,  whom  I  had  called  upon,  at  his  romantic 
residence  a  few  miles  back,  had  kindly  accompanied  me.  For 
the  interesting  historic  incidents  which  he  gave  me,  connected 
with  the  scenery  we  stopped  to  admire  on  the  road,  I  wish  I  had 
room  in  this  letter,  but  I  have  already  exceeded  time  and  limits, 
and  those  who  visit  the  Kamapo  may  like  to  learn  its  history  and 
imagine  its  poetry  for  themselves.  I  pointed  out,  to  this 
gentleman  and  to  the  Messrs.  Sloat,  any  number  of  situations  for 
villas  and  country-houses,  such  as  "  Mr.  Capability  Brown,"  of 
London,  would  consider  of  unsurpassed  advantages  ;  and  (let  me 
tell  you)  New  York  is  yet  to  open  its  eyes  at  this  Eden  within 
reach — this  little  Switzerland  within  two  hours  of  Broadway. 

Rather  than  wait  for  the  more  rapid  mail-train,  which  I  had 
intended  to  take  at  this  station,  I  accepted  a  chair  in  the  con 
ductor's  box  on  a  slow  freight-train,  and  so,  with  the  fortunate 
opportunity  of  looking  out  on  both  sides,  and  seeing  all  of  the 
country  I  was  passing  through,  I  pursued  my  way  toward 
Piermont.  The  scenery,  to  the  edge  of  the  Hudson,  is  all 
beautiful.  One  wonders  that  the  first  opening  of  the  railroad 
has  not  peopled  such  a  valley  with  residents,  at  once.  Like  every 
new  country,  however,  it  is  liable  to  fevers,  where  the  water  is 
stopped  for  mills  and  the  moist  vegetable  deposit  accumulates 
and  decays,  and  this,  perhaps,  is  a  reason  ;  but,  with  management 
and  care,  this  evil  is  soon  removed,  and  then,  what  neighborhood 
of  New  York  can  compare,  for  a  residence,  with  the  valley  of 
the  Kamapo  ? 

With  recommending  a  trip  hither  to  every  lover  of  beauty,  and 
every  reader  of  the  Home  Journal,  I  will  close  this  long  letter, 
dear  Morris,  and  remain 

Yours,  &c. 


LETTER  FROM  WESTCHESTER, 

Visit  to  Westchester— Speed  of  Harlem  Train— Lots  (of  Dust)  For  Sale 
— Monotony  of  Elegance— Poverty  necessary  to  Landscape— Reed's  Villa 
at  Throg's  Neck — Bronx  River  Shut  in  from  Publicity  and  Fame — 
Missing  Train  and  Stage— Surly  Toll-Keeper— Politeness  of  "Mine  Host" 
—Suburban  Manners  of  New  York— High-bred  Horse  and  Low-bred 
Owner— Contagion  of  Rowdyism,  etc.,  etc. 

DEAR  MORRIS  : — Before  leaving  town  for  the  summer,  I  ma.de 
an  excursion  from  the  Island  of  Manhattan  to  the  main  land  of 
Westchester,  but  doubt  whether  I  saw  any  thing  unfamiliar 
enough  to  chronicle.  My  friend,  who  was  to  meet  me  with  his 
horses  at  Fordham,  had  instructed  me  to  take  the  three  o'clock 
Harlem  train  in  the  city,  and  come  to  him.  "  in  forty  minutes  ;" 
but,  though  there  seemed  to  be  no  unusual  delay,  we  were  one 
hour  and  fifty  minutes  performing  this  sixteen  miles — a  fact 
which  will  instruct  any  sanguine  reader,  who  may  think  of  passing 
the  afternoon  in  Westchester,  to  take  the  morning  train.  Of 
dust,  I  think  I  have  never  "  experienced"  so  much  in  the  same 
time  and  distance.  The  "  lots  "  between  Twenty-seventh  street 
and  Harlem  seem  nothing  but  lots  of  dust ;  and,  either  the  law 
should  take  notice  of  fraudulent  pretence,  or  the  spelling  should 


130  POOR-FOLKS  IN  LANDSCAPE. 


be  altered  upon  the  sign-boards — for  they  are  fit  only  "for  sail" 
before  the  wind.  My  travels  in  that  direction,  again,  would  not 
be  willingly  beyond  the  water's  edge  of  the  municipal  water- 
cart,  and  I  wonder  how  the  "  old  family"  population  of  West- 
chester  County  get  to  and  fro — unless,  indeed,  they  go  by  North 
or  East  River,  landing  at  Yonkers,  or  Throg's  Neck,  with  their 
Carriages  to  meet  them. 

Once  away  from  the  rail-track,  in  Westchester,  you  find  your 
self  in  a  region  of  "  country-seats" — no  poor  people's  abodes,  or 
other  humble  belongings,  anywhere  visible.  It  struck  me  that 
this  was  rather  a  defect  in  the  general  scenery,  though  any  one 
estate,  perhaps,  looked  better  for  things  exclusively  ornamental. 
Or,  is  contrast  always  necessary  in  out-of-door  pictures,  and  docs 
no  rich  man's  house  show  to  advantage  without  a  laborer's 
cottage  in  the  back-ground  ?  Whatever  degree  of  distribution  of 
"  poor  folks,"  is  necessary — (and  whether  needed  to  humanize,  or 
furnish  relief  to  the  landscape) — certain  it  is  that  Westchester 
wants  a  dash  of  wretchedness  to  make  it  quite  the  thing.  Miles 
upon  miles  of  unmitigated  prosperity  weary  the  eye.  Lawns  and 
park-gates,  groves  and  verandahs,  ornamental  woods  and  neat 
walls,  trim  hedges  and  well-placed  shrubberies,  fine  houses  and 
large  stables,  neat  gravel-walks  and  nobody  on  them — are  notes 
upon  one  chord,  and  they  certainly  seemed  to  me  to  make  a  dull 
tune  of  Westchester.  Remembered  singly,  however,  there  are 
lovely  places  among  its  winding  roads.  We  drove  in  front  of 
Mr.  Reed's  cottage,  at  Throg's  Neck,  as  the  Eastern  steamers 
swept  past  upon  their  route,  and  a  finer  picture  than  was  formed 
by  the  broad  waters  of  the*  Sound,  the  moving  wonders  of  steam, 
tfye  landscape  beyond,  and  the  charming  ground  immediately 
about  us,  could  scarcely  be  composed  by  a  painter. 


SUBURB  MANNERS.  131 

The  Bronx  is  a  lovely  little  river,  but,  like  a  beautiful  woman 
seen  through  the  window  of  a  house  where  one  does  not  visit,  it 
seems  inviduously  cut  off  from  sympathy.  Private  grounds 
enclose  its  banks  wherever  they  look  inviting.  For  so  pretty  a 
stream  and  so  near  New  York,  it  is  very  little  celebrated.  There 
is  many  a  "  Ward"  in  the  city,  I  dare  say,  where  the  Bronx  was 
never  heard  of.  The  poor  river,  so  aristocratically  fenced  up, 
might  say,  perhaps,  like  the  Queen  of  France  when  her  attend 
ants  drove  a  troubadour  from  her  Palace-gate  : — "  admit  him 
who  can  tell  the  world  I  am  beautiful." 

A  call  we  made,  at  a  place  of  exquisite  taste  and  beauty, 
had  been  a  little  too  prolonged,  and  a  half-hour's  very  fast 
driving  did  not  repair  the  loss.  Bidding  good-night  to  my  kind 
friend  on  one  side  of  Harlem  Bridge,  I  crossed  to  the  other  to 
take  the  stage  for  town — thinking  my  being  too  late  for  the  train, 
was  the  extent  of  my  misfortune— but  the  last  stage  was  gone,  as 
well.  It  was  quite  dark,  and  the  toll-keeper  was  evidently  used 
to  giving  his  worst  manners  to  foot-passengers  at  that  hour.  He 
very  sulkily  assented  to  enquire  me  up  a  conveyance  to  take  me 
to  town.  The  tavern  was  next  door,  and  a  light  in  the  bar-room 
showing  two  loungers  chatting  together,  and  a  man  lying  at  his 
full  length  on  a  table,  he  led  the  way  in.  I  must  give  you  the 
scene,  as  a  specimen  of  the  manner  of  receiving  customers  in  the 
suburbs  of  New  York. 

"Man  wants  to  go  to  town  !"  said  the  toll-keeper,  stepping  in 
before  me  and  walking  up  to  the  inn-keeper. 

A  look  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  but  no  change  of  posture 
and  no  answer.  * 

"  I  am  left  by  the  train,"  I  said,  following  into  the  room, 
"  and  must  get  home  to-night ;  have  you  a  vehicle  ?" 


132  STYLISH  TEAM. 


After  a  minute  or  so  of  motionless  silence,  "  I  don't  know  but 
what  I  have  !"  came  forth  very  reluctantly,  but  the  speaker  was 
evidently  resolved  neither  to  rise  nor  say  needless  word,  till 
bargain  was  first  made. 

"  For  what  will  you  take  me  to  town  ?" 

"Three  dollars." 

I  diffidently  suggested  that  the  price  seemed  a  large  substitute 
for  the  shilling  conveyance  I  had  missed. 

"  Would  you  bring  me  out  here,  at  this  time  o'night,  for  that  ?" 
said  the  man,  pulling  his  hat  over  his  face  as  if  to  go  to  sleep 
without  further  bother. 

As  I  really  could  not  say  that  I  would  (bring  my  prostrate 
friend  to  Harlem  for  three  dollars,  were  I  to  hear  of  his  being  left 
in  New  York  by  the  last  train)  I  assented  to  the  price  ;  and  he 
then  slid  from  the  table,  and  made  his  way  yawningly  to  the  barn. 
Now,  what  sort  of  a  vehicle  would  you  have  anticipated  from  such 
manners  ?  I  expected  a  potato-cart,  with  a  board  seat. 

One  of  the  newest  and  most  chaste  models  of  trotting-wagon 
came  round  presently  to  the  door,  with  a  remarkably  beautiful 
black  trotting  mare,  in  light  and  elegant  harness — the  whole 
turn-out  very  much  beyond  what  I  had  ever  seen  in  the  way  of 
"  livery."  I  was  driven  to  town  in  admirable  style,  and,  take  it 
altogether,  it  was  a  very  fair  three-dollar  business.  But  where 
would  have  been  the  harm  of  a  little  politeness  "  thrown  in  r" 

That  a  man  can  keep  such  a  horse  and  such  manners — one 
ownership  for  both — is,  of  course,  a  comment  on  the  quality  of 
New  York  suburban  custom  at  an  inn.  I  do  not  suppose  the 
landlord  at  Harlem  is  more  rude  than  his  brethren  at  other 
stopping-places  on  the  road,  and  it  is  evident  that  the  "  circum 
stances"  which  had  enabled  him  to  keep  such  a  team,  had  made 


ROWDY    INFLUENCE.  133 


no  call  for  improvement  in  civility.  As  a  landlord,  and  well  off, 
he  was  a  mirror  to  reflect  the  manners  of  those  he  sees  most 
of,  and  who  drives  such  "  teams"  as  he  does.  I  have  mentioned 
his  want  of  tolerable  behaviour,  simply  to  introduce  the  question, 
of  how  far  the  rowdyism  of  the  time  affects  the  common  manners 
of  the  country  ? 

I  write  this  in  the  Highlands,  at  the  back  of  Cro'  nest,  and 
meant  to  have  spoken  of  my  Westchester  excursion  only  by  way 
of  introduction  to  descriptions  of  scenes  less  familiar — but  I  have 
filled  up  my  space,  and  will  start  fair  with  another  theme  in 
another  letter. 

Yours,  &c. 


LETTER  FROM  THE  HUDSON, 

HIGHLAND  TERRACE,  August  — 

DEAR  MORRIS  : — I  mentioned  that  I  had  still  a  memorandum 
or  two  of  my  visit  to  West  Point  the  other  day,  and,  with  your 
leave,  I  will  chronicle  as  I  go — though  I  am  not  sure  of  amusing 
you  with  topics  picked  up  on  such  a  thoroughfare  of  summer 
travel.  As  I  am  properly  off  duty,  however,  with  an  invalid's 
privilege,  you  will  considerately  expect  no  more  from  me  than 
"  slops"  will  sustain  and  season. 

I  was  strolling  leisurely  over  the  parade-ground,  listening  to 
the  band,  which  was  playing  during  a  "  stand  at  ease"  of  the 
afternoon  drill,  when  three  or  four  gentlemen  passed  me,  walking 
faster  toward  the  same  attraction.  They  were  speaking  Spanish  ; 
and  I  took  them  (by  this  and  the  white  gloves  the  younger  men 
wore)  to  be  a  party  of  Cubans.  One  of  them,  the  eldest,  how 
ever,  attracted  my  attention  as  he  walked  before  me,  and  I  com 
mented  on  the  un-tropical  decision  and  character  of  his  gait,  and 
on  a  certain  strong  resemblance  between  his  profile  and  that  of 
Garbeille's  bust  of  General  Taylor.  The  nose  was  slightly 
aquiline,  and  the  whole  air  military,  particularly  the  straight  car- 


GENERAL  PAEZ.  135 


riage  of  the  back  and  head,  and  the  firm  planting  of  the  feet. 
The  resemblance  to  the  late  President  suggested  a  comparison 
between  the  two  heads,  and  I  remarked  a  difference,  in  the  much 
larger  combativeness  of  the  Spaniard,  Taylor  having  been 
moderately  developed  in  this  animal  organ,  and  drawing  his 
courage  from  the  better  controlled  organ  of  firmness.  I  had  very 
little  idea  that  I  was  thus  unconsciously  comparing  the  heads 
and  motive  principles  of  TAYLOR  and  PAEZ  ! 

The  commanding  officer  at  the  Point  kindly  presented  me  to 
the  Venezuelan  hero,  as  we  stood  in  a  group  of  listeners  to  the 
music,  a  few  minutes  after,  and  I  had  an  opportunity  of  observ 
ing  his  face  and  mien  more  closely.  PAEZ  is  a  most  powerfully 
and  compactly  framed  man,  not  very  tall,  but  with  all  his  physi- 
,cal  faculties  in  admirably  perfect  development.  His  brow  is  well 
rounded,  his  eyes  are  good-humored  and  alive  with  perception 
and  prompt  fearlessness,  his  skin  is  dark,  and  the  lines  about  his 
mouth  full  of  chivalric  expression.  A  grey  moustache,  clipped 
short,  gave  a  rather  more  heroic  look  to  his  compressed  lips  than 
they  might  otherwise  have  had,  and  possibly  the  military  music 
added  to  this,  for  I  observed  that  he  was  very  much  moved  by  it. 
With  one  air,  particularly,  which  returned,  at  the  close  of  each 
measure,  to  a  rapid  crescendo  on  the  drum,  (please  ask  your 
cadet  boy  the  name  of  it,  dear  Morris,)  the  famous  South  Ameri 
can  was  delighted  quite  beyond  his  soldierly  reserve.  Standing 
with  folded  arms  almost  immovable,  during  the  drills  and  the 
other  portions  of  the  music,  he  turned  to  the  several  gentlemen 
around  him,  at  each  successive  putting  on  of  the  vehemence,  and 
expressed  his  pleasure,  with  a  smile  and  some  good  round  sylla 
bles  of  Spanish  ejaculation.  It  brought  out  the  awakened  glow 


136  EDITING    OR    SOLDIERING. 


of  his  face,  and  showed  us  how  the  hero  may  have  looked,  when, 
but  for  the  music,  we  should  have  seen  only  the  man. 

The  little  band  of  gray- coats  performed  beautifully.  This 
learning  the  trick  of  making  ten  thousand  legs  and  arms  move  to 
the  thinking  of  one  brain,  is  a  very  picturesque  process,  though, 
as  an  actor  in  it,  I  should  prefer  some  directly  opposite  system, 
which  would  give  us  the  use  of  more  brains  for  our  legs  and  arms. 
Looked  at  from  "  the  ranks,"  indeed,  the  two  professions  of 
soldier  and  editor  are  in  direct  contrast  in  this  respect — a  soldier's 
duty  being  but  the  ten  thousandth  of  one  man's  thinking,  while 
an  editor's  duty  is  to  think  for  ten  thousand.  Since  this  has  oc 
curred  to  me,  I  have  taken  back  a  kind  of  sigh  I  remember, 
while  looking  on  at  the  parade,  (for  I  fairly  wished  my  drudged 
brain  were  under  the  cap  of  one  of  those  handsome  cadets,  learn 
ing  glory,  with  a  commanding  officer  to  think  for  me) — and  I 
shall  use  it  as  a  lesson  of  content.  Please  remind  me,  when  I 
next  murmur  at  my  lot,  of  the  above  mentioned  difference  (or 
this  view  of  it)  between  serving  subscribers  and  serving  one's 
country. 

Speaking  of  gray  coats,  I  understood,  at  the  Point,  that  this 
classic  uniform  of  the  Military  Academy  is  to  be  changed  to  a 
blue  frock.  It  will  be  a  sensible  and  embellishing  alteration,  and 
the  cadets  will  look  more  like  reasoning  adults  and  less  like 
plover  in  pantaloons — but  what  is  to  become  of  all  the  tender 
memories,  "  thick  as  leaves  in  Vallambrosa,"  which  are  connected 
with  that  uniform  only  ?  What  belle  of  other  days  ever  comes 
back  to  the  Point,  without  looking  out  upon  the  Parade  from  the 
window  of  the  Hotel,  and  indulging  in  a  dreamy  recall  of  the 
losing  of  her  heart,  pro  tern.,  on  her  first  summer  tour,  to  one  of 
those  gray-tailed  birds  of  war  ?  A  flirtation  with  a  gray  coat  at 


WEST    POINT.  137 


the  Point  is  in  every  pretty  woman's  history,  from  Maine  to 
Florida.  Suppress  those  tapering  swallow-tails!  Why,  it  will 
be  a  moulting  of  the  feathers  of  first  loves,  which  will  make  a  cold 
shiver  throughout  the  Union.  I  doubt  whether  the  blue  frock, 
with  its  similarity  to  the  coats  of  common  mortals,  will  ever  ac 
quire  the  same  mystic  irresistibleness  which  has  belonged  to  that 
uniform  of  gray.  The  blue  may  be  admired,  but  the  pepper-and- 
salt  of  other  days  will  be  perpetuated  in  poems. 

I  went,  of  course,  before  leaving  the  Point,  to  see  what  WEIR 
had  upon  the  easel.  His  picturesque  studio,  with  its  old  carved 
cabinet  and  heaps  of  relics  and  curiosities,  was  in  as  rich  and 
artistic  confusion  as  ever ;  but,  though  the  room  was  up  to  one's 
chin  in  lumber,  there  was  standing  room  in  front  of  his  easel,  and 
a  sweet  picture,  just  finished,  stood  upon  it.  The  mind  of  the 
painter  runs  upon  sacred  subjects,  and  this  was  an  ideal  embodi 
ment  of  devotion — a  young  girl  of  saintly  beauty,  with  her  hands 
clasped  unconsciously  in  devout  thought,  and  her  calm  eyes 
turned  upward.  It  was  an  exquisite  piece  of  colour,  and  con 
ceived  in  a  pure-hearted  inspiration.  I  found  the  hands  a  little 
too  slight  to  be  in  keeping  with  the  full  health  of  the  face,  but,  as 
such  inequalities  of  development  do  occur  in  Nature,  and  a  trans 
parent  thinness  of  hands  gives  a  look  of  more  unimpassioned  and 
spiritual  delicacy,  perhaps  the  artist  was  right.  He  showed  us 
also  a  portfolio  of  drawings  from  Scripture  subjects,  full  of  origi 
nal  vigour,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  Weir's  genius  so  runs  upon 
this  vein,  that  he  would  work  altar-pieces  and  church  pictures  to 
more  advantage  than  other  branches  of  Art.  Whatever  he  should 
do  in  this  way,  he  would  do  with  all  his  heart. 

Bayard  Taylor  was  at  the  Point.  Rider's  Hotel  was  full  of 
good  company,  and  all  rejoicing  in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  General 


138  MRS.    GEN.    SCOTT. 


Scott,  which,  besides  much  other  pleasure  that  it  gave,  brought 
the  band,  two  evenings  in  the  week,  to  play,  as  a  compliment 
from  the  Commandant.  It  is  a  remarkable  band,  by  the  way,  or 
scenery  heightens  music,  or,  possibly,  Nature's  monotones  give 
us  a  relish  for  brass.  After  hearing  crickets  and  Katy-dids  for  a 
month,  one's  ear  gets  a  hunger  even  for  a  trumpet. 

In  so   dull   a  vein,  this  letter  must  be   long   enough.     So, 
adieu. 

Yours,  &c. 


LETTER  FROM  HIGHLAND   TERRACE, 

Invalid's  Difficulty  in  Writing — Meeting  with  Durand  the  Painter — His 
Residence  on  the  Quassaic — Sheet  of  the  Hudson  as  Middle-ground  to 
Landscape— Morris's  Residence  at  Undercliff,  in  the  Distance — Misnaming 
of  River — Need  of  a  Usage  as  to  Name-giving — Process  of  Naming — 
"Nigger  Pond"— Mysterious  Package  by  Post— Delay  in  Delivery  of  a 
Missive — Arrival  of  what  was  Destined  for  me  in  the  Time  of  our  Saviour 
Head  of  Homer  in  an  Intaglio — Object  of  Fate  in  having  it  Cut  and  For 
warded,  etc.,  etc. 

DEAR  MORRIS  : — If  a  letter  find  its  way  off  the  point  of  my 
pen  to-day,  it  will  be  by  force  of  natural  declivity,  for  I  am 
rallying  after  a  week's  illness  ;  and  to  slope  a  quill  toward  your 
name  is  the  most  of  a  a  continuity"  of  which  I  feel  any  way  ca 
pable.  I  shall  write,  if  it  please  Heaven.  What  we  should  chat 
about,  if  you  were  here,  may  possibly  slide  off  "  with  intermis 
sions,"  but,  as  to  the  subjects,  I  shall  take  them  as  they  come, 
and  obstinate  sentences  may  "perish  in  their  sins."  Look  for 
nothing  that  does  not  run  trippingly  off. 

Pottering  about  in  a  farmer's  wagon,  last  week,  (on  my  sum 
mer's  business  .of  looking  up  scenery,)  I  overtook  DURAND  at  the 
outlet  of  one  of  the  ravines  opening  into  the  Hudson.  The  great 
master  of  landscape  was  taking  an  evening  walk  with  his  daughter, 


140  THE    QUASSAIC. 


and  was  not  far  from  his  home — such  a  spot  as  a  sense  of  beaut) 
like  his  should  properly  abide  in.  Really  you  would  not  wish 
Claude  or  Ruysdael  better  lodged.  I  had  never  before  seen  the 
beautiful  stream  which  is  here  tributary  to  the  Hudson,  (and,  on 
a  natural  gallery  of  which,  his  cottage  is  hung,  like  a  picture 
high  on  the  wall),  but,  with  his  verbal  direction,  I  turned  at  a 
bridge  over  a  swift  current,  and  followed  a  winding  ascent  along 
its  bank.  One  or  two  mills,  whoso  buildings,  dams  and  bridges 
are  of  very  neat  structure,  give  an  air  of  utility  to  the  outlet,  but 
the  shell-like  curves  and  mounds  of  the  acclivities,  on  either  side  of 
the  winding  valley,  are  laid  out  in  ornamental  woods  and  grounds  ; 
and  the  views  back,  as  you  ascend — ("distant  glimpses  of  the 
broad  Hudson  seen  from  the  seclusion  of  this  lesser  stream  and 
its  verdurej — are  most  enchanting.  Fine  as  the  Hudson  is,  it  is 
finest  as  the  middle-ground  to  a  picture.  It  needs  a  foreground 
for  its  best  effects — such  a  one  as  you  get  from  these  lovely  re 
treating  eminences  with  promontories  on  either  bank.  Our  back 
ground,  blue  and  misty,  was  the  mountain  range  you  say  your 
own  prayers  up  against,  my  dear  General,  when  you  tip  your 
Hudson-facing  chair,  at  Undercliff,  into  an  attitude  of  devotion. 
(Pardon  my  mentioning  what  is  behind  you,  at  such  times.  To 
turn  your  back  on  the  world  is  all  very  well,  of  course,  but  you 
do  it  with  more  "  spiritual  grace"  if  you  first  know  what  there 
was  in  it,  worth  seeing.)  We  will  come  over  and  see  Durand 
and  his  bird's  nest,  together,  some  day. 

Till  I  see  Downing,  the  Horticulturist,  who  lives  within  a  mile 
or  two  of  this  bright  little  river,  (and  as  its  nearest  celebrated 
man,  is  bound  to  see  it  treated  with  respect, J  I  shall  vainly  con 
jecture  why  one  of  the  most  romantically  swift,  rocky,  deep-down 
and  cascady  streams  in  the  world,  is  robbed  of  its  good  name  and 


NAMING    OF   BROOKS.  141 


belied  by  a  false  one.  In  the  early  histories,  and  on  the  county 
maps,  this  lovely  water-course  is  called  the  Quassaic  River,  after 
the  Quassaic  tribe  of  Indians,  whose  favorite  haunt  it  was  ;  but, 
by  the  people  in  the  neighborhood  it  is  only  known  as  "  Cham- 
bers's  Creek" — a  doubly  misrepresenting  appellation,  since,  in  the 
first  place  a  creek  is  a  navigable  inlet  of  still  water  putting  up 
from  a  bay,  while  the  Quassaic  is  a  rocky  and  pebbly  rapid  from 
one  end  to  the  other  ;  and,  in  the  second  place,  there  is  no  pro 
priety  in  changing  the  Indian  name  of  a  river  to  "  Chambers's," 
because  a  person  named  Chambers  comes  to  reside  on  its  border. 
It  has  often  occurred  to  me  that  there  should  be  a  timely  and 
formal  interest  taken  by  American  neighborhoods  in  the  naming 
of  their  smaller  lakes,  falls,  rivers  and  mountains.  In  the  varied 
scenery  of  our  country,  there  is  many  a  natural  beauty,  destined 
to  be  the  theme  of  our  national  poetry,  which  is  desecrated  with 
any  vile  name  given  it  by  vulgar  chance,  while,  if  taken  in  time, 
a  more  descriptive  and  fitting  baptism  would  be  both  pleasant  and 
easy.  Why  should  not  neighborhoods  manage  this  desirable  ob 
ject  by  a  pic-nic,  or  some  other  agreeable  shape  of  gathering  ? 
If  a  river,  a  "  pond,"  or  a  fall,  a  ravine,  a  valley  or  a  mountain, 
have  a  bad  name  or  no  name,  the  influential  persons  who  reside 
near  by,  and  who  have  frequent  occasion  to  speak  of  it,  might 
very  properly  call  a  meeting  on  the  subject.  The  history  of  the 
country  would,  of  course,  be  first  consulted,  and  a  name  taken, 
if  possible,  from  any  Indian  legend,,  stirring  event  or  fine  action, 
of  which  the  spot  in  question  had  been  the  scene.  Failing  this, 
the  opportunity  might  be  taken  to  celebrate  the  memory  of  any 
departed  great  man  whose  home  had  been  near.  '  Other  reasons 
of  choice  might  occur,  to  the  committee  appointed  to  decide ; 
and,*  to  make  sure  that  the  name  be  euphonious  and  poetical, 


142  NIGGER   POND. 


(which  it  should  certainly  be,)  the  committee  should  be  half  com 
posed  of  the  more  refined  and  more  imaginative  sex.  The  name 
once  decided  upon,  its  adoption  might  be  the  occasion  of  one 
general  pic-nic,  or  of  any  number  of  private  parties  with  excur 
sions  to  the  spot,  or  a  poem  might  be  delivered,  or  an  oration,  or 
(why  not  ?)  a  sermon.  I  should  be  glad,  indeed,  if  the  Home 
Journal  could  suggest  a  usage  of  this  kind.  You  will  allow  that 
it  is  wanted,  when  you  take  for  example  the  most  beautiful  Lake 
in  the  romantic  highlands  of  the  Ramapo — a  resort  of  unsur 
passed  rural  scenery,  and  within  two  hours  of  New  York — and 
what  do  you  think  is  the  only  name  it  is  known  by  ?  "  Nigger 
Pond  !» 

The  country  Post-Office,  which  serves,  just  now,  as  the 
"  Bridge  of  Sighs"  between  the  lofty  Highlands  of  the  Hudson 
and  the  "  shop"  in  Fulton  Street — 

("  A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand" — ) 

brought  forth  a  mysterious-looking  package,  a  day  or  two  since, 
which,  considering  that  it  had  been  probably  seventeen  or  eighteen 
centuries  on  the  way,  it  was  an  event  to  receive.  Last  from  the 
Bay  of  Naples,  and  "  favored  by  Captain  Totten  of  the  U.  S. 
Store-ship  Relief,"  its  previous  delays  for  centuries,  and  its  first 
posting  by  Fate,  for  this  destination,  were,  of  course,  not  de 
finitely  decypherable.  Come  to  hand,  at  last,  however,  the 
removal  of  sundry  envelopes  disclosed,  first,  a  case  with  broken 
hinges,  imbedded  in  which  lay  a  beautiful  antique — an  elaborate 
intaglio  gem,  representing  the  head  of  old  Homer.  Specimen  of 
Grecian  Art  as  this  is,  and  found  in  Pompeii,  (where,  of  course, 
it  was  a  foreign  curiosity  at  the  time  of  this  fated  city's  burial  in 
lava,)  I  cannot  specify  to  what  respectable  contemporary  of  our 
Saviour  I  am  indebted,  for  its  first  forwarding  from  Athens,  on 


DESTINY    OF    AN   ANTIQUE. 


this  its  westward  destination.  Whoever  he  .was,  he  probably  had 
very  little  idea,  that,  past  the  post-office  where  it  would  eventually 
be  delivered,  would  run  an  electric  telegraph,  which  could  do,  in 
seventeen  minutes,  the  distance  which  this  gem  would  not  travel  in 
less  than  seventeen  centuries  !  Fancy  the  "  direction"  which  a 
prophet  who  "  knew  the  road"  would  have  put  upon  this  gem  at 
starting  :  —  From  --  ,  Esq.,  at  Athens,  in  the  year  One,  or 
thereabouts,  to  its  Appreciator,  Esq.,  in  the  Hudson  Highlands, 
via  Pompeii  and  the  Atlantic,  and  to  be  delivered  in  1850  !  Em 
barrassed  as  I  certainly  am,  at  present,  "  duly  to  acknowledge 
the  receipt,"  of  this  missive  so  long  due,  I  doubt  whether  Andrew 
Jackson  Davis  would  not  promise  us  a  clairvoyant  telegraph,  by 
which  we  may  some  day  track  it  back  —  from  the  Highlands  and 
me,  all  the  way  to  the  Acropolis  and  its  patient  artist.  Of  the 
various  hands  through  which  it  has  since  passed  —  from  the  first 
purchaser,  who  despatched  it  from  Athens  to  Pompeii,  in  the 
reign  of  Pontius  Pilate,  to  the  purchaser  in  the  eighteenth  cen 
tury  who  officiated  in  the  Post-Office  of  Fate  by  forwarding  it 
thence  to  me  —  I  can  only  name  the  last;  and  it  will  perhaps 
amuse  him  to  accept  thanks,  which  he,  as  the  last  link  in  a  chain 
as  long  as  Anno  Domini,  is  commissioned  to  pass  back  to  those  of 
whom  he  is  the  latest  continuation  ! 

Lieut.  Flagg,  of  the  Navy,  (if  the  above  statement  of  facts 
needs  reducing  into  a  shape  less  explicit  and  more  intelligible,) 
has  most  kindly  remembered  me,  while  the  Frigate  Cumberland 
has  been  anchored  m  the  Bay  of  Naples,  and  sends  me  an  ex 
quisite  antique,  which  he  found  in  his  rambles  in  Pompeii.  It  is 
a  head  of  old  Homer,  with  his  brows  bound  with  the  circlet,  as 
he  is  commonly  sculptured,  and  his  sharp  nose,  relaxed  eye  and 
slightly  parted  mouth,  in  the  usual  expression  of  just  completed 


144  A    LIFT    FOR    OLD    HOMER. 

improvisation.  The  .curling  beard,  high  cheek  bone,  emaciated 
face  and  round  head,  are  all  exquisitely  cut  in  the  pietra  dura. 
I  shall  have  him  set  in  a  ring,  and  distribute  his  likeness  on  the 
seals  of  my  letters — this  tributary  mite,  toward  a  revival  of 
celebrity  for  immortal  old  Homer,  having  (possibly)  been  Fate's 
intention,  in  first  having  it  carved  and  started  on  its  westward 
way,  eighteen  hundred  years  ago.  "Who  knows  but  the  best  kind 
of  immortality  needs  a  lift,  from  time  to  time — eh,  General? 
But  my  letter  waxes  long,  for  a  sick  man's. 

Adieu. 


~ 


LETTER  FROM  HUDSON  HIGHLANDS. 

« 

HUDSON  HIGHLANDS,  August  — . 

DEAR  MORRIS  :— I  have  mended  my  pen  to  the  music  of  a 
cow-bell,  and  sit  at  a  cool  window  on  the  North  side  of  a 
pleasant  farm-house — no  interruption  possible  except  from  these 
very  communicative  poultry— (and,  somehow,  cocks  and  hens 
seem  to  have  a  great  deal  to  say  to  each  other)— so  that,  if 
comfort  and  leisure  do  not  prevent,  I  am  likely  to  inveigle  this 
innocent  summer's  morning  into  a  letter.  Really,  a  day  as 
beautiful  as  this  should  have  a  voice  to  speak  for  itself.  If 
there  has,  ever  before,  been  one  as  beautiful,  and  if  its  sunshine 
and  breezes  went  past  unrecorded,  I  can  only  say  the  Past  should 
give  back  its  unwritten.  Is  there  no  Morse,  to  make  the  shadow 
of  a  tree  work  like  a  pen  in  the  sun's  hand,  and  keep  a  diary  as 
it  goes  round — to  make  a  breeze  tell  what  it  reads,  as  it  turns 
over  the  leaves  in  the  forest— to  take  down  the  meanings  of 
Nature,  and  "write  words"  for  the  eternal  "  airs  with  accompa 
niments"  given  us  by  the  winds  and  running  brooks  ?  What  do 
you  suppose  the  angels  think,  of  our  knowledge  of  what  is  about 
us  ?  I  shall  be  surprised,  a  hundred  years  hence,  if  I  do  not  look 


146  MOUNTAIN    RIDE. 

back  upon  the  world,  and  find  that  we  have  walked  it  like  flies  in 
a  library— complacently  philandering  over  the  backs  of  volumes 
of  secrets  for  which  our  poor  buzz  contained  no  articulation  ! 

But,  you  are  waiting  for  the  history  of  my  recent  explorings. 
I  have  seen  the  world  from  the  seat  of  a  farmer's  wagon,  for  two 
or  three  weeks,  and  have  "  got  in"  scenery,  as  my  landlord  has 
got  in  hay— till  the  loft  is  inconveniently  full.  My  pen,  that 
plays  pitchfork,  would  easier  give  you  your  fodder  if  it  were  less 
weighed  down  with  what  you  do  not  want.  The  rack  gets  its 
name,  probably,  from  the  painful  disproportion  between  each 
«  feed"  and  the  size  of  the  "  mow."  What  shall  I  ever  do,  with 
all  the  beautiful  trees,  streams  and  valleys,  that  I  have  taken  into 
my  memory  in  the  last  twenty  days  ;  and  which  I  can  neither 
forget,  nor  re-produce  in  description  ? 

To  go  round  behind  where  the  thunder  comes  from,  has  always 

been  a  wish  of  mine,  when  at  West  Point,  and  this  I  have 

accomplished   at   last,  in   a   trip  from  the   other   side.     I  am 

ruralizing,  as  you  know,  on  the  Pacific  Ocean  slope  of  the  Alps 

which  look  across  Fort  Putnam  to  the  Atlantic.     From  here,  as 

from  New  York,  "  the  Point"  is,  in  fact,  an  island— no  getting 

to  it  except  by  water— and  the    next   easiest   way  to  reach  it 

seemed  to  be  to  climb  up  into  the  clouds  and  slide  down  from 

above,  with  the  trick  of  some  "  gentle  shower."     I  have  done 

this— having  fairly  mounted  to  the  cloud  line,  gone  up  through, 

come  out  on  the  other  side,  and  alighted  safely  at  Eider's.     You 

should  have  witnessed   mine   host's  astonishment  at  seeing  me 

arrive  by  a  conveyance  of  which  he  knew  nothing  ! 

To  describe  the  excursion  more  intelligibly : 

I  was  indebted  to  a  kind  clergyman,  of  the  village  near  by,  for 

the  offer  of  guidance  in  this  rather  unusual  trip  to  West  Point 


MONUMENT    TO    DUNCAN.  147 

over  the  mountains.  The  distance  is  reckoned  at  about  eight 
miles,  and  to  go  and  return  is  a  fair  day's  work.  My  friend 

Mr.  C ,  is  a  very  public-spirited  man,  and  he  had  another 

errand  beside  showing  me  the  road.  He  wished  to  make  some 
movement,  at  the  Point,  for  the  raising  of  a  monument  to  Duncan, 
whose  grave,  without  a  stone  to  mark  it,  is  on  one  of  the  emi 
nences  near  this,  overlooking  the  Hudson.  Of  his  success  in 
forming  a  plan  for  this  purpose,  and  its  claim  on  the  public,  I 
will  elsewhere  speak— confining  my  present  letter  to  the 
excursion. 

Mr-  C is  the  tiller  of  the  soil  of  a  farm,  as  well  as  of  the 

souls  of  a  congregation,  and  drove  round,  for  me,  at  seven  in  the 
morning,  with  a  very  spirited  pair  of  horses,  in  his  open  wagon. 

The  road  we  were  to  travel  was  more  rough  than  new its  most 

frequent  traveller,  at  one  time,  having  been  General  Washington 
— and  the  mountain  stream,  along  whose  course  it  makes  its  first 
mile  or  two  of  ascent,  is  still  called  "  Continental  Brook,"  after 
the  troops  who  often  tracked  it.  Any  soft  part  that  there  might 
ever  have  been  to  the  road,  had  been  washed  out  by  the  heavy 
rains.  Indeed,  I  doubt  whether  we  touched  earth  after  the  first 
half  hour — the  wheels  simply  banging  from  rock  to  rock,  with 
never  a  moment  to  catch  breath  between.  The  scenery  behind 
us,  as  we  ascended,  grew,  at  every  step,  more  extended  and 
beautiful,  however.  Leaving  my  friend  to  keep  his  horses  from 
falling  backwards  over  us,  I  turned  about,  and  braced  my  feet 
against  the  rear-board  of  the  wagon— (almost  standing  erect 
upon  it,  part  of  the  time)— to  enjoy  the  prospect  as  well  as  was 
permitted  by  the  venerable  stones  which  had  jolted  the  Saviour 
of  his  country.  The  Hudson,  thence,  looked  less  like  a  river 
than  a  lake,  small,  and  with  its  banks  sprinkled  with  villages. 


148  BLACK    ROCK. 


We  seemed  to  be  climbing  up  the  side  of  a  huge  bowl,  and  the 
river  was  but  the  remaining  ladle-full,  "  left  for  manners"  in  the 
bottom.  The  incompleteness  of  this  bowl — the  piece  broken  out 
of  the  side,  as  it  were — is  but  the  small  interval  of  comparatively 
low  land  above  Newburgh  and  Fishkill ;  the  sweep  of  mountains 
which  encloses  this  loveliest  of  landscape  amphitheatres,  forming 
otherwise,  a  romantically  Alpine  circle  of  horizon.  Of  the  broad 
Highland  terrace  between  Newburgh  and  West  Point — known  as 
the  townships  of  Cornwall  and  New  Windsor,  and  extending 
back,  on  a  high  level,  four  or  five  miles  from  the  river  to  the 
base  of  the  hills — I  shall  have  more  to  say  in  another  letter  or 
two. 

Between  the  peaks  of  the  half-dozen  mountains  clustered 
behind  West  Point,  are  table-land  hollows,  which  give  a  shelf- 
like  location  for  a  farm,  and  in  one  of  these  we  found  a  very 
handsome  young  couple,  with  a  well-built  stone  house,  and  every 
appearance  of  a  comfortable  home  and  thrifty  culture.  A  little 
way  from  the  door  lay  a  most  beautiful  and  bright  lake,  that  holds 
the  head-waters  of  Buttermilk  Falls,  (which  you  notice  just  be 
low  Cozzens's,  in  coming  up  the  river.)  The  summits  of  "  Black 
Rock"  and  "  Sky  Rock"  were  close  by.  Groshen  dairies  lay  on 
one  side,  and  our  country's  garden  for  soldiers  on  the  other — the 
Hudson  on  the  east,  and  the  Ramapo,  farther  off,  on  the  west — 
and  from  hereabouts  comes  thunder,  manufactured  from  the 
clouds  caught  in  these  hollows  of  His  hand.  In  fair  weather, 
such  as  we  found  it  in,  it  seems  a  place  of  thin  air,  quite  above 
newspaper  level,  and  with  no  foot-print  of  mortal  trouble  or  un 
rest.  They  should  build  an  Inn,  on  the  Lake  shore  in  this  Sum 
mit  Valley,  where  one  might  come  and  lodge  when  he  were  tired 


HOTEL    IN    THE    CLOUDS.  149 


of  the  world  lower  down.     I  should  be  a  customer  at  least  once  a 
year. 

It  is  something  to  start  with  a  down-hill,  so  blessing  to  you, 
for  the  present,  from  the  regions  whence  such  things  come. 

Adieu. 

Yours,  &c. 


LETTER  FROM  THE  HIGHLANDS, 

HUDSON  HIGHLANDS,  August  — . 

DEAR  MORRIS  : — Please  read  this  letter  in  connection  with 
the  last.  They  are  two  halves  of  an  excursion,  and  should, 
perhaps,  have  been  sent  to  you  in  one ;  but — like  the  Turkish 
Pasha  with  whom  I  once  dined,  on  the  ruins  of  ancient  Troy,  and 
who  gave  us  a  promenade  in  his  fig-orchard  betwen  the  courses — 
I  fancy  the  appetite  is  sometimes  freshened  by  a  respite.  I  had 
made  you  climb  with  me,  from  the  other  side,  to  the  summit  of 
the  mountain  above  West  Point,  and  there  you  left  me.  Let  us 
see  if  I  can  interest  you,  to  keep  me  company  down. 

I  believe  I  have- not  mentioned  that  the  rough  road  we  were 
tracking  is  the  lightning  turnpike  from  New  York  to  Albany — 
the  telegraph  wires  following  it  closely  all  the  way.  Electricity, 
(perhaps  it  never  occurred  to  you,)  goes  as  easy  up  hill  as  down 
— or,  at  least,  I  presume  so,  as  there  is  no  sign  of  "  putting  on 
another  horse"  to  take  the  telegraph  over  the  mountain.  The 
birds,  I  noticed,  sit  as  confidingly  on  the  wires,  in  these  remote 
woods,  as  they  do  in  the  less  timid  atmosphere  of  the  lowlands. 
How  strange  that  they  should  feel  nothing,  either  of  the  various 


REGION    BEYOND    FENCES.  151 


news  that  passes  between  their  toes,  or  of  the  harnessed  lightning 
on  which  it  is  whipped  along  under  them !  Of  what  swift 
secrets,  of  superior  beings,  are  we,  in  our  'turn,  unconscious  ? 
Perch  with  reverence,  my  friend,  on  wires  you  do  not  altogether 
understand — (the  Rochester  knockings,  for  example) — remember 
ing  how  unlikely  one  of  these  sparrows  would  be,  to  believe  that 
news  could  be  communicated,  over  a -thing  he  could  sit  on  as 
quietly  as  on  the  most  undeniable  birch  twig  in  the  wilderness. 
Catch  a  sparrow  at  believing  that  humbug ! 

As  you  see  these  wild  mountain-tops  from  the  Hudson,  they 
do  not  look  inhabited — but  they  are,  even  in  the  wildest  recesses. 
There  is  a  class  of  people  who  cannot  live  where  there  are  fences, 
and  yet  who  like  liberty  within  reach  of  a  dram.  They  must  at 
least  stay  where  a  village  steeple  beckons  them  down,  once  a 
week,  to  get  something  to  drink.  Above  fence  level,  the  land, 
though  "  owned,"  is  uncared  for.  There  is  no  charge  either  for 
the  logs  or  place  to  build  a  shanty,  nor  for  the  pasture  of  a  cow, 
nor  for  the  load  of  sticks,  which,  taken  to  the  village,  will  swap 
for  the  fill  of  a  bottle,  a  salt  fish  and  a  little  tea.  There  is  such 
a  two-legged  type  of  the  American  eagle,  at  every  little  distance 
in  these  cloud-capt  glens,  dwelling  un taxed  on  the  "mountain-top 
and  taking  what  he  wants,  rent-free,  from  the  earth's  surface 
about  him.  In  the  Highland  region  of  the  Hudson,  sixteen  miles 
by  twenty-five,  there  are  probably  five  hundred  of  these  carriers- 
out  of  our  national  emblem — eagles  in  all  their  tastes,  except 
fondness  for  drink.  It  was  doubtless  from  this  class  that  the 
"  cow-boys"  were  formed,  in  the  days  of  the  Revolution,  and 
indeed,  we  could  see  the  home  of  that  marauding  troop,  the 
mountains  of  the  Ramapo,  from  the  eminence  we  were  crossing. 
Two  or  three  weeks  ago,  you  remember,  I  described  my  visit  to 


152  SMITH'S    CLOVE. 


that  region.  In  former  days,  (my  intelligent  companion  of  the 
present  ramble  informed  me),  the  Kamapo  Valley  was  called 
"  Smith's  Clove,"  and  it  was  thought  by  decent  people  to  be  the 
devil's  own  abode.  The  Smith  after  whom  it  was  named,  was 
the  chief  of  the  cow-boys,  and  the  worst  known  man.  It  is 
among  the  "  old  stories"  of  Orange  county  that  a  fellow  for  whom 
the  people  had  a  great  dislike,  though  no  particular  crime  could 
be  proved  against  him,  was  adjudged,  by  the  Selectmen,  to  be 
expelled  from  the  neighbourhood.  The  Dutch  town  crier  and 
constable  called  upon  him  accordingly,  and  informed  him  that  he 
was  to  absent  himself,  forthwith,  "  from  off  the  face  of  Cot 
Almighty's  airth."  "  Off  the  face  of  God's  earth  !"  exclaimed 
the  poor  fellow,  "  why,  where  is  that  ?"  "  Smith's  Clove  !"  said 
the  constable.  So  that  the  loveliest  and  most  picturesque  sixteen 
miles  of  the  whole  track  of  the  Erie  Railroad — (through  the 
Ramapo  Valley,  or  "  Smith's  Clove")— is  "  off  the  face  of  Cot 
Almighty's  airth,"  remember  !  Whether  towards  heaven,  or  the 
other  place,  was  not  mentioned  in  the  story  •  though  I  have  seen 
so  lovely  an  inhabitant  from  thence,  that  I  should  be  willing  to 
take  my  chance  at  beginning  there,  when  the  world  has  done  with 
me — taking  a  cottage  in  the  shadowy  vale,  meantime,  to  pass  old 
age  there,  and  so  take  oblivion  easy. 

School-books  say  that  the  steepest  acclivities  of  mountains  are 
towards  the  sea,  but  the  one  we  were  now  descending  is  an 
exception.  The  most  precipitous  side,  by  several  degrees,  is 
towards  Newburgh.  Leaving  Black  Rock  on  our  left,  and  Spy 
Rock  on  our  right,  we  followed  a  winding  descent,  made  by  the 
folding  of  several  slopes  into  each  other,  and,  after  a  mile  or  two 
downwards,  came  suddenly  upon  a  smooth  broad  road,  of  scientific 
construction.  For  the  remainder  of  the  way,  four  miles,  we 


. 

VEILED    WATERFALL.  153 


followed  the  easy  grade  of  a  road  laid  out  and  built  by  the 
Engineers  of  the  Military  School,  and — (though  we  had  been 
jolted  into  a  proper  appetite  for  it,  it  is  true) — we  found  it 
unusually  delightful.  With  the  wild  mountains  still  completely 
enclosing  us,  we  were  entering  upon  a  highway  as  well  built  as 
the  Simplon,  and  with  a  descent  so  gradual  as  scarcely  to  be 
noticeable.  This  refinement,  and  the  equipages  we  began  pre 
sently  to  meet — (visitors  to  the  Point,  taking  their  morning 
drive) — seemed  strangely  in  contrast  with  what  we  had  just  left 
behind  us.  Those  easy  wheels,  bearing,  so  gently  along,  the 
ladies  reclining  on  their  cushions,  were  a  very  sudden  change  from 
the  ox-teams,  struggling  and  toiling  with  their  creaking  axle-trees, 
which  we  had  passed  on  the  rocky  continuation  of  the  same 
highway  a  few  minutes  before. 

A  cascade  with  a  green  veil  on — really  difficult  to  see,  it  is  so 
shut  in  by  the  leaves  of  the  wood — makes  music  for  the  traveller 
at  about  three  miles  from  the  Point.  Falling  fifty  or  sixty  feet, 
it  is  of  sufficient  magnitude  to  deserve  a  name  ;  though,  as  it  is 
the  stream  which  feeds  Buttermilk  Falls,  they  would  probably 
call  it  Cozzens^s  Churn^  if  it  were  left  to  the  Orange  county 
vocabulary.  We  followed  the  course  of  this  bright  current  for 
some  distance,  and  it  seemed  impossible  to  believe  that  there  was 
a  larger  river  before  us.  The  Hudson  is  invisible  till  you  come 
close  upon  its  banks,  and  the  mountains  which  you  see  beyond  it, 
look  as  impenetrably  battlemented  with  precipices  as  those  which 
frown  immediately  around.  As  you  get  the  first  view  of  the 
water  below,  it  seems  at  a  far-down  subterranean  depth,  and  a 
sloop  which  was  just  rounding  Rider's  wharf,  had  really  the 
pokerish  effect  of  some  underground  navigation,  upon  which  the 
sunshine  had  been  accidentally  let  in. 


154  WEIR    THE    PAINTER. 


The  sudden  unfolding  of  the  panorama  around  the  Point  is 
inexpressibly  beautiful.  The  high  ridge,  which  you  have  had  for 
some  time  on  your  left,  you  find  to  be  Crow's  Nest,  and  a  bold 
elevation  on  the  right  turns  out  to  have  been  the  back  of 
Fort  Putnam.  Below  lies  the  enchanted  scene  which  all  the 
world  has  been  to  see,  and  which  needs  no  describing.  We  drove 
in  upon  the  Parade-ground  by  the  gate  which  Uncle  Sam  has 
placed  across  the  road  to  remind  us  of  his  authority  hereabouts, 
and  we  paid  the  toll  of  homage  to  genius  which  every  one  pays  in 
passing  through  that  gate — for  Weir's  house  is  where  a  toll- 
keeper's  would  be,  close  beside  it. 

And  so,  dear  Morris,  I  have  landed  your  attention  safely  on  the 
other  side  of  the  mountain,  as  my  skilful  and  Reverend  friend  and 
driver  safely  landed  me.  If  you  thank  me,  as  cordially  as  I 
thanked  him,  I  shall  feel  that  my  trouble  has  not  been  thrown 
away.  Of  some  matters  of  interest  that  I  saw  at  the  Point,  that 
day,  I  will  perhaps,  speak,  in  another  letter. 

Yours,  meantime, 

N.  P.  W. 


LETTER  FROM  THE  HIGHLANDS, 

HUDSON  HIGHLANDS,  August  — ,  '50. 

DEAR  MORRIS  : — The  summer,  like  other  promises  of  un 
changing  warmth,  has  its  caprices;  and  the  mountain  by  whose 
side  I  sleep,  and  which  was  to  wear  a  smile  genial  and  balmy 
through  its  October,  shows  aa  cold  shoulder"  to-day,  and  gives  a 
foretaste  of  the  soured  airs  of  its  November.  The  old  age  of  the 
Season,  like  other  old  age,  comes  soon  enough,  at  the  slowest ; 
and  these  premature  gray  skies,  frowning  over  unmellowed  fruit 
as  they  do,  put  the  most  amiable  of  pens  and  ink  out  of  humour. 
The  forecast  shadow  of  the  letter  I  am  about  to  write,  looks  brief 
and  cold. 

"  No  man  is  so  poor  that  he  must  have  his  pig-stye  at  his 
front  door,"  says  a  Fourth  of  July  Oration  which  you  sent  me 
yesterday,  and,  since  the  atmosphere  is  charged  with  a  sermon, 
let  me  preach  one  to  our  country  people  on  this  text.  In  the 
excursions  I  have  made,  through  Orange  and  Rockland  counties, 
within  the  last  month,  there  is  but  one  universal  feature  which 
has  seemed  other  than  beautiful— but  one  ever  recurring  disgust 
— the  pig -troughs  invariably  outside  the  front  gates,  and  the 


156  CURIOUS    FREEDOM    OF    THE    ROAD. 


swine  invariably  kept  in  the  public,  road.  I  say  u  invariably,"  be 
cause  the  country-seats  of  gentlemen  are  almost  the  only  excep 
tions  to  this  abomination.  You  may  see  traces  of  taste  around 
the  door  of  many  a  cottage  and  farm  house — flowers  in  bloom, 
vine-colored  porches,  shrubs  and  neat  walks,  inside  the  fence — 
while  outside  the  fence,  strange  to  say,  is  a  filthy  phalanx  of  pigs 
which  you  must  charge  and  rout  to  get  in.  The  way  to  the  par 
lour  is  through  the  pig-stye  ! 

AVhat  is  gained  by  giving  hogs  the  freedom  of  the  road,  it  is 
difficult  to  tell,  for  there  is  no  waste  food  for  them  on  the  high 
way.  What  is  lost  by  it  seems  so  apparent  as  to  make  the  cus 
tom  a  wonder,  among  people  of  any  thrift  or  policy  ;  for,  besides 
the  constant  inroads  they  make  upon  the  crops,  and  the  frequency 
of  their  being  run  over,  and  of  their  injuring  children,  and  being 
chased  and  maimed  by  dogs,  they  demean  the  general  aspect  of  the 
neighbourhood^  and  disgust  those  whose  choice  of  it  for  a  residence 
depends  on  the  agreeableness  of  the  impression.  I  would  not 
mention  such  a  subject  if  it  were  not  with  a  hope  of  hastening  a 
reform  in  the  matter.  The  country  about  the  Hudson,  particu 
larly,  is  quite  too  beautiful  to  be  disfigured  by  such  an  eye -sore. 
Let  me  add  weight  to  what  I  have  said,  by  quoting,  from  the 
Fourth  of  July  Oration  I  spoke  of,  an  admirable  and  most  truth 
ful  passage,  on  the  duty  of  every  citizen  to  embellish  the  neigh 
bourhood  of  his  residence  : — 

"  Every  man,  no  matter  how  poor  he  may  be,  can  do  something  towards 
making  this  world  more  beautiful.  He  can  leave  behind  him  monuments, 
through  which  the  grateful  zephyrs  shall  warble  his  praises,  long  after  he 
shall  be  sleeping  in  the  dust.  Are  you  a  poor  man,  toiling  hard  for  frugal 
fare  ?  You  will  be  more  than  repaid  for  the  labour  that  is  required  to  keep 
the  plat  before  your  door  clean  and  green ;  and  you  will  love  your  home  the 
better  for  the  rose  bush  which  blooms  in  the  yard,  looking  up  into  your  eye, 


DUTY    OF    BEAUTY.  15? 


as  it  were  with  gratitude,  through  its  green  leaves  and  blushing  flowers.  It 
was  but  the  work  of  half  an  hour  to  plant  it  there.  And  many  a  year  will 
it  reward  you  and  your  wife  and  your  children,  with  its  smiles.  A  man 
cannot  love  a  rose,  without  being  a  better  man  for  that  exercise  of  love.  A 
child  cannot  prune  it  and  water  it,  and  watch  with  affection  its  swelling 
buds,  without  becoming  more  gentle  in  character,  more  refined  in  feeling, 
more  docile  in  spirit. 

"Walter  Scott  in  one  of  his  graphic  descriptions,  represents  a  Scottish 
lord,  riding  by  the  humble  hut  of  a  peasant,  who  is  planting  a  tree  before 
his  door.  He  commends  him  for  his  taste  exclaiming,  '  When  you  have 
nothing  better  to  do  Jock,  be  aye  sticking  out  a  tree  Jock,  'twill  grow  when 
you're  asleep  Jock.'  There  is  no  little  philosophy  in  this  declaration.  You 
plant  a  tree — give  it  that  gentle  nurturing  which  it  may  for  a  short  time 
need,  and  it  will  ever  after  reward  you  with  its  foliage  and  shade.  You 
sleep,  and  it  steadily  advances,  in  its  growth,  to  the  perfection  of  beauty. 
You  go  away  for  months,  perhaps  for  years,  and  it  forgets  not  to  grow,  and 
on  your  return  your  heart  is  gladdened  by  its  fair  proportions. 

"  And  a  tree  is  property.  Who  will  not  give  a  few  dollars  more  for  a 
farm  house,  beneath  the  shade  of  whose  ornamental  trees  his  children  can 
play,  or  his  cattle  slumber  in  the  noon-tide  heat  ?  And  how  can  the  occu 
pant  of  a  village  house  make  a  better  investment  of  a  few  dollars,  than  in 
attaching  to  his  house  those  ornaments  which  every  man  of  taste  so  eagerly 
covets  ?  A  few  green  sods  will  change  an  unsightly  sand  bank  into  beauty, 
where  the  eye  may  rest  with  pleasure  and  where  the  feet  may  love  to  lin 
ger.  A  few  hours'  work,  in  a  spring  morning,  may  give,  to  your  home  the 
richest  ornaments  a  home  can  have,  tempering  the  fierce  blaze  of  the 
summer's  sun,  and  breaking  up  the  fury  of  the  winter's  storm. 

"  Property  is  worth  more  in  a  beautiful,  well-shaded  village,  than  on  a 
bleak,  sunburnt,  unsightly  plain.  He  who  has  no  regard  for  the  appearance 
of  his  own  premises,  not  only  sinks  the  value  of  his  own  property,  but  also 
finks  the  value  of  the  property  of  his  neighbours.  No  one  likes  to  live  in  the  sight 
of  ugliness.  On  the  other  hand,  he  who  makes  his  own  home  attractive, 
contributes  to  the  rising  value  of  all  the  region  around  him.  He  is  thus 
a  public  benefactor,  contributing  not  merely  to  the  gratification  of  the  taste 


158  HINT    IN    AN    ORATION. 


of  those  who  look  upon  his  improvements,  but  adding  to  the  real  marketable 
value  of  the  property  in  his  vicinity. 

"  Do  not  think  that  we  are  here  urging  expense  upon  those  who  are  ill 
able  to  afford  it.  No  man  is  so  poor  but  that  he  can  have  a  flowering  shrub 
in  his  yard.  No  man  is  so  poor,  but  that  he  can  plant  a  few  trees  before  his 
dwelling.  No  man  is  so  poor,  that  he  must  have  his  pig-stye  at  his  front  door. 
We  only  -contend  that  every  man  should  exercise  that  taste  which  God  has 
given  to  every  man.  And  though  we  may  not  be  able  to  vie  with  the  rich 
in  the  grandeur  of  our  dwellings,  the  lowliest  cottage  may  be  embellished 
with  loveliness,  and  the  hand  of  industry  and  of  neatness  may  make  it  a 
home  full  of  attractions.  Let  there  once  be  formed,  in  the  heart  of  man,  an 
appreciation  of  the  beautiful  and  the  work  is  done.  Year  after  year,  with 
no  additional  expense,  the  scene  around  him  will  be  assuming  new  aspects 
of  beauty. 

"  Say  not,  I  am  not  the  owner  of  house  or  lands  and  therefore  I  have 
nothing  to  do.  All  are  but  tenants  at  will.  We  are  all  soon  to  leave,  to  re 
turn  no  more.  Wherever  you  dwell,  even  if  it  be  in  your  own  hired  house 
but  one  short  year,  be  sure  and  leave  your  impress  behind  you — be  sure  and 
leave  some  memorial  that  you  have  been  there.  The  benevolent  man  will 
love  to  plant  a  tree,  beneath  whose  shade  the  children  of  strangers  are  to 
play.  It  does  the  heart  good  to  sow  the  seed,  when  it  is  known  that  other 
lips  than  yours  shall  eat  the  fruit. 

"  Neither  think  that  this  is  a  question  without  its  moral  issues.  The  love 
of  home,  is  one  of  the  surest  safeguards  of  human  virtue.  And  he  who 
makes  home  so  pleasant  that  his  children  love  it,  that  in  all  the  wan 
derings  of  subsequent  life  they  turn  to  it  with  delight,  does  very  much  to 
guide  their  steps  away  from  all  the  haunts  of  dissipation,  and  to  form  in 
them  a  taste  for  those  joys  which  are  most  ennobling." 

The  author  of  this  is  the  Rev.  John  Abbott,  Principal  of  one 
of  the  best  institutions  in  this  country,  and  a  man  of  admirably 
practical,  elevated  and  sound  mind.  The  Oration  was  delivered 
at  Farmington  Falls,  and  the  other  portions  of  it  are  well  worthy 
of  reproduction,  had  you  room. 


MR.    ABBOTT.  159 


Just  enough  of  an  invalid  to  be  very  much  "  under  the 
weather,"  as  I  am,  dear  Morris,  I  must  break  off  with  thus 
much  of  a  letter  for  this  week,  and  hope  for  more  sunshine  and  a 
quicker  pulse  when  I  next  write  to  you. 

Yours,  &c., 

N.  P.  W. 


OLD  WHITEY  AND  GENERAL  TAYLOR, 

WE  were  standing  at  the  corner  of  President  Square,  in  Wash 
ington,  the  other  day — literally  brought  to  a  stand-still  by  the 
heavenly  beauty  of  the  weather — when  a  loose  horse  trotted 
leisurely  by  us  in  the  open  street,  and  we  found  ourself  expand 
ing  towards  him,  in  sympathetic  recognition  of  the  similarity  of 
our  respective  happiness.  "  There  are  two  of  us  out  of  harness, 
to-day,"  we  mentally  said — "  God  bless  you,  old  brother  workey, 
and  may  you  enjoy,  as  I  do,  this  delicious  sunshine  and  its  heav 
enly  nothings-to-do  !"  On  he  trotted  toward  the  President's 
gate,  and,  halting  a  little  before  the  entrance,  he  seemed  hesitat 
ing  between  perfect  liberty  to  go  in  or  stay  out — when  it  sud 
denly  occurred  to  us  that  our  fellow  idler  might  not  be,  after  all, 
the  "  private  individual"  for  whom  we  had  fancied  our  sympathy 
to  be  rather  a  condescension  than  otherwise  !  What  if  it  should 
be  "  Old  Whitey," — reposing  on  his  laurels  ! 

A  moment's  look,  up  and  down  the  pave  in  front  of  the  Presi 
dent's  mansion,  corroborated  the  conjecture.  There  were,  per 
haps,  twenty  persons  in  sight,  and,  among  them,  we  recognized 
one  of  the  Cabinet  Secretaries,  a  venerable  Auditor,  the  Austrian 
Charge,  and  two  of  those  un-anxious  and  yet  responsible-looking 


TAYLOR'S    CHARGER.  161 


persons  whom  you  know  to  be  "  Members"  and  not  office-seekers 
— and — (curious  to  see) — all  eyes  were  fixed,  not  upon  the  dis 
tinguished  foreigner,  not  on  the  Honorable  officials,  not  on  the 
Honorable  members,  not  on  an  unharnessed  and  loose  Editor  of 
the  Home  Journal — but,  on  the  unharnessed  and  loose  white 
horse ! 

We  felt  the  smoke  of  Buena  Vista  and  Resaca  de  la  Palma,  of 
Palo  Alto  and  Monterey,  pushing  us  toward  the  old  cannon-proof 
charger.  He  went  smelling  about  the  edges  of  the  sidewalk — 
wondering,  probably,  at  such  warm  weather  and  no  grass — and 
we  crossed  over  to  have  a  nearer  look  at  him,  with  a  feeling  that 
the  glory  was  not  all  taken  from  his  back  with  the  saddle  and 
holsters.  "  Old  Whitey"  is  a  compact,  hardy,  well  proportioned 
animal,  less  of  a  battle-steed,  in  appearance,  than  of  the  style 
usually  defined  by  the  phrase  "  family-horse,"  slightly  knock- 
kneed,  and  with  a  tail  (I  afterwards  learned)  very  much  thinned 
by  the  numerous  applications  for  a  "  hair  of  him  for  memory." 
He  had  evidently  been  long  untouched  with  a  currycomb,  and 
(like  other  celebrities  for  want  of  an  occasional  rubbing  down) 
there  was  a  little  too  much  of  himself  in  his  exterior — the  name 
of  "  old  Whitey,"  indeed,  hardly  describing  with  fidelity  a  coat 
so  matted  and  yellow.  But,  remembering  the  beatings  of  the 
great  heart  he  had  borne  upon  his  back — the  anxieties,  the  ener 
gies,  the  defiances  of  danger,  the  iron  impulses  to  duty,  the 
thrills  of  chivalric  triumphs,  and  th'e  sad  turnings  of  the  rein  to 
see  brothers  in  arms  laid  in  the  graves  of  the  battle-field — remem 
bering  all  that  has  been  thought  and  felt,  in  the  saddle  which  that 
horse  was  wont  to  wear — it  was  impossible  to  look  upon  him 
without  a  throb  in  the  throat — one  of  those  unbidden  and  unrea 
soning  tear-throbs,  that  seem  to  delight  in  paying  tribute,  out  of 


162  ''ROUGH  AND  READY/' 


time  and  unexacted,  to  trifles  that  have  been  belongings  of  glory. 
We  saw  General  Taylor  himself,  for  the  first  time,  the  next  day 
— with  more  thought  and  reverence  of  course,  than  had  been 
awakened  by  looking  upon  his  horse — but  with  not  half  the 
emotion. 

The  "  hero-President"  has  been  more  truthfully  described 
than  any  man  we  ever  read  much  of  before  seeing.  One  who  had 
not  learned  how  extremes  touch,  in  manners — the  most  courtly 
polish  and  the  most  absolute  simplicity — might  be  surprised,  only, 
with  that  complete  putting  of  every  one  in  his  presence  at  ease, 
which  is  looked  upon  in  England  as  the  result  of  high  breeding  ; 
and  which  General  Taylor's  manners  effect,  without  the  slightest 
thought  given  to  the  matter,  apparently,  and  with  the  fullest  pre 
servation  of  dignity.  "  Rough  and  Ready" — in  this  way — an 
English  Duke  would  be,  as  well ;  and,  by  the  way,  his  readiness 
is  of  a  simplicity  and  genuineness  which  it  is  wonderful  indeed  to 
find  so  high  on  the  ladder  of  preferment !  There  were  but  six  or 
eight  persons  in  the  room,  when  the  party  we  accompanied 
were  presented  to  the  President ;  and  the  conversation,  for  the 
ten  minutes  we  were  there,  was  entirely  unstudied,  and  between 
himself  and  the  ladies  only.  But  we  should  have  been  anywhere 
struck  with  the  instant  directness,  obviousness,  and  prompt  and 
dose-hitting  immediateness^  with  which  he  invariably  replied  to 
what  was  said.  Let  it  be  ever  so  mere  a  trifle,  the  return 
thought  was  from  the  next  link  of  association.  Most  great  men, 
diplomatists  and  politicians  particularly,  go  "  about  the  bush"  a 
little,  for  a  reply  to  a  remark,  omitting  the  more  obvious  and 
simpler  answer  it  might  suggest,  for  the  sake,  perhaps,  of  an  ap 
pearance  of  seeing  more  scope  in  the  bearing  of  the  matter.  But 
Taylor — (we  thought  we  could  make  certain,  even  from  these  few 


TAYLOR'S   MANNERS.  163 


brief  moments  of  observation) — has  no  dread  of  your  seeing  his 
mind  exactly  as  it  works  ;  and  has  no  care,  whatever,  except  to 
think  and  speak  truthfully  what  comes  first,  regardless  of  any 
policy,  or  management  of  its  impression  on  the  listener.  The 
key  of  his  voice,  at  the  same  time,  is  that  of  thorough  frankness, 
good  humour  and  unconsciousness  of  observation,  while  his  smile 
is  easy  and  habitual.  The  grace  with  which  these  out-of-door 
characteristics  accompany  a  mouth  of  such  indomitable  resolution 
and  an  eye  of  such  searching  and  inevitable  keenness,  explains, 
perhaps,  the  secret  of  the  affection  that  is  so  well  known  to 
have  been  mingled  with  the  confiding  devotion  felt  -for  him 
throughout  the  army.  It  is  impossible  to  look  upon  the  old  hero, 
we  should  say,  without  loving  and  believing  in  him.* 

*  General  Taylor's  death  followed  very  closely  upon  the  period  when  this 
was  written. 


THE  LATE  PRESIDENT, 

GENERAL  TAYLOR'S  life  has  one  most  striking  lesson.  He 
ascended  to  the  highest  honour  of  his  country,  by  the  honest 
staircase  of  unobtrusive  duty,  and  not  by  the  outside  ladder  of 
brilliant  and  crafty  ambition.  Where  and  what  he  was,  till 
Glory  called  him,  is  the  instructive  portion  of  his  history.  The 
great  deeds  he  was  found  ready  for — when  need  came — take 
their  best  lustre,  it  seems  to  us,  from  the  patient  heroism  with 
which,  in  a  remoter  and  lesser  sphere,  he  equally  "  endeavoured 
to  do  his  duty." 

From  the  great  anthem  of  eulogy  and  mourning,  pealing  forth, 
since  his  death,  in  every  shape  of  utterance,  it  seems  to  us  that 
this  one  note  should  be  the  dwelt-upon  and  eternal  echo — GLORY 
SOUGHT  HIM,  HE  SOUGHT  NOT  GLORY.  In  this  distinction — 
could  it  but  be  made  necessary  to  American  -  greatness — there 
would  be  a  "  divinity  to  hedge  about"  the  Presidents  of  our 
country,  which  would  lift  them  far  above  kings  ;  while,  in  it,  at 
the  same  time,  would  live  a  principle  of  incalculable  .security  to 
our  institutions. 

There  seems  to  have  been  a  design  of  Providence  in  the  whole 
fitness  of  Taylor's  character  to  the  times  he  fell  on.  The  passion 


TAYLOR'S  GUIDING-STAR.  165 


for  military  glory,  with  which  the  nostrils  of  our  national 
prosperity  were  inflated  at  the  time  of  the  conquest  of  Mexico, 
called  for  a  hero — but  never  before  was  there  such  need  that  it 
should  be  a  hero  who  could  govern  himself.  The  moderation  of 
Taylor  has  been  of  more  use  to  us  than  his  victories.  His 
common  sense  has  been  mightier  than  his  sword. 

The  dying  words  of  the  great  and  good  man  : — "  I  HAVE 
ENDEAVOURED  TO  DO  MY  DUTY" — contain  a  biography  of  more 
worth  than  Napoleon's ;  but  they  seem  to  us  of  higher  purport 
than  to  be  weighed  against  another  man's  glory.  They  contain 
the  law  of  conduct  of  which  our  country  has  most  need  to  be 
kept  in  mind.  Sound  judgment  and  high  principle  are  wanted 
at  the  helm  of  State,  and  for  these  qualities,  more  than  for 
brilliant  genius  and  practised  policy,  we  should  look,  in  the  men 
to  govern  us. 

Honour  to  the  ashes  of  Taylor  !  But  let  the  urn  which 
preserves  his  memory  be  the  adoption  of  his  dying  words  as  a 
standard ;  for,  no  measure  is  so  fitting,  for  those  who  are  to  take 
his  place,  as  that  by  which  he  measured  his  own  life  in  leaving 

it THE  ENDEAVOUR  TO  DO  HIS  DUTY  ! 


EDWARD  EVERETT, 

THAT  "  the  root  of  a  great  name  is  in  the  dead  body,"  is  one 
of  those  old  sayings  based  upon  a  principle  of  human  nature,  and 
likely  to  be  always  true  in  some  variable  degree  ;  but,  either  it  isj 
less  true  in  proportion  as  the  world  civilizes,  or,  else,  among  the 
changes  which  are  classed  as  "things  the  age  is  ready  for,"  is  ai 
greater  liberality  as  to  the  pre-payment  of  posthumous  fame — a 
rebuking  of  envy,  jealousy  and  ungenerous  interpretation — in 
short,  a  rendering  of  more,  justice,  than  of  old,  to  living  greatness. 
We  have  remarked  instances  of  this,  within  the  last  ten  years, 
which  could  not  formerly  have  occurred — Sir  Robert  Peel, 
Wordsworth  and  Hallam,  in  England,  for  instance,  and  Webster, 
Everett,  Irving  and  Bryant  in  our  own  country — all  of  whom 
have  been  nearly  as  much  honoured  in  life  as  they  could  be,  or 
would  justly  be,  in  death. 

Finding  upon  our  table,  the  two  volumes  of  "  Everett's  Ora 
tions,"  just  published  by  Little  and  Brown,  of  Boston,  we  felt 
ourself  summoned  to  the  bar  of  conscience,  (as  an  Editor  must 
ever  be  when  about  to  speak  of  one  to  whose  imprint  of  fame  he 
serves  as  the  ink,)  and  we  were  compelled,  as  we  ever  are  before 
this  tribunal,  to  answer  the  question  partly  answered  in  the  para- 


MR.    EVERETT'S    POSITION.  167 


graph  above — is  lie  appreciated  by  his  contemporaries,  or  is  there 
a  tacit  appreciation  in  the  higher  sanctuaries  of  public  opinion,  to 
which  you  are  bound,  by  the  possession  of  a  journal,  to  give 
voice  ? 

Mr.  Everett  has  had  the  tribute  of  public  honours  in  singular 
profusion  and  variety.  After  attaining  the  summit  of  distinction 
for  learning,  as  Professor  of  the  University,  and  for  pulpit  elo 
quence,  as  a  clergyman,  he  successively  filled  the  offices  of  Mem 
ber  of  Congress,  Governor  of  his  State,  Foreign  Minister  and 
President  of  Harvard  College,  with  lesser  appointments  and 
honours,  in -great  number,  which  could  only  be  given  to  the  coun 
try's  most  finished  orator  and  surest  master  of  public  occasion. 
Just  in  the  prime  of  a  statesman's  life — at  the  age  when  a  states 
man's  career  of  patriotic  service  oftenest  begins — he  has  more  be 
hind  him  than  was  ever  won,  of  American  distinction,  in  the  same 
time  ;  and,  with  his  varied  acquirements  and  experience,  he  has 
more  material  for  greatness  hereafter  than  was  ever  possessed,  in 
this  country,  so  on  the  threshold  of  a  meridian.  This  is  generally 
understood,  and  so  certain  to  be  expressed,  where  Mr.  Everett  is 
spoken  of,  that,  taken  in  connection  with  the  respect  and  admi 
ration  always  paid  him,  posthumous  fame  could  scarcely  honour 
him  more. 

We  were  strongly  impressed,  the  last  time  we  were  under  the 
spell  of  Mr.  Everett's  eloquence,  with  the  need  of  such  men  that 
a  Republic  has — the  need,  in  fact,  that  there  would  seem  to  be, 
of  a  lofty  order  of  professed  public  orators,  who,  by  mingled  wis 
dom  and  eloquence,  could  minister  to  the  public  mind  as  did  the 
oracles  of  old,  or  the  prophets  of  Scripture.  Take  one  of  Mr. 
Everett's  Orations,  for  instance,  and  see  what  was  required,  for 
its  preparation,  and  its  adaptedness  to  the  occasion  on  which  it 


168  QUALITIES    OF    AN    ORATOR. 


was  delivered  !  The  most  splendid  structure  of  the  architect  is 
not  more  heaped  in  confusion  when  the  stones  and  mortar  are 
first  brought  together,  than  are  the  events  and  associations  from 
which  the  Orator  must  rear  his  deed-enshrining  fabric.  It  re 
quires  first  that  difficult  and  statesmanlike  faculty  of  generaliza 
tion — of  realizing  the  classic  absurdity,  that  is  to  say,  of  judging 
of  a  house  by  a  specimen  of  a  brick — of  taking  the  relevant  and 
irrelevant  events  of  a  period,  and  building  them  into  the  century 
outline  to  which  they  belong.  It  requires  a  judgment  capable  of 
weighing  any  human  action,  seeing  its  motive  and  bearings,  and 
anticipating  the  verdict  which  will  be  passed  upon  it  in  history. 
It  requires  both  the  power  of  seeing  events  with  the  philosopher's 
perspective  of  distance  and  of  comprehending  familiarly  the  char 
acter  and  want  of  the  present  hour — which  he  is  called  upon, 
with  the  mystery  he  thus  reads,  to  enlighten  and  instruct.  It 
requires  profound  scholarship,  political  sagacity,  generous  and 
bold  enthusiasm,  views  too  liberal  for  one  sect  or  one  party,  great 
personal  respectability,  and  the  control  of  that  sublimity  of  human 
speech  which  we  call  eloquence.  The  gifts  and  making  of  such 
men,  are  the  gifts  and  making  of  a  prophet ;  and,  like  prophets, 
they  might  profitably  be  set  apart,  and,  sacred  from  other  occu 
pation,  be  kept  for  these  high  duties  only. 

Mr.  Everett  has  always  seemed  to  us  the  ideal  of  such  an  ora 
tor  as  we  describe.  He  has  lived  up  to  a  consciousness  of  such  a 
mission,  apparently.  The  public  understands  this.  Who  would 
doubt,  that,  for  any  emergency,  of  public  question,  duty,  or  trust, 
he  would  exercise  the  highest  human  intelligence,  and  bring  to 
bear  upon  it  every  existing  light  of  precedent,  policy  and  fore 
seen  result? 

Yours,  &c. 


EMERSON, 

The  announcement  that  Mr.  Emerson  was  to  lecture  at  the 
Mercantile  Library,  a  few  evenings  since,  was  a  torpedo  touch, 
even  to  that  most  exhausted  and  torpid  thing  on  earth,  editorial 
curiosity— for,  though  the  impregnator  of  a  whole  cycle  of  Boston 
mind,  and  the  father  of  thousands  of  lesser  Emersons,  he  is  the 
most  unapproachably  original  and  distinct  monotype  of  our  day ; 
and,  strange  to  say,  we  had  never,  to  the  best  of  our  knowledge, 
laid  eyes  upon  him.  For  this  unaccountable  want  of  recognition 
and  signification,  living  in  the  same  town,  as  we  were,  when 
Emerson  first  began  to  preach  and  write,  and  never  taking  the 
trouble  to  go  and  behold  him  as  a  prophet,  we  must  own  to  tardy 
perceptions— but  it  was  doubtless  due  to  his  belonging  to  a  sect 
which  we  supposed  had  but  one  relish,  and  which  led  us  to  dismiss 
what  we  heard  of  him,  of  course,  with  the  idea  that  he  was  but  a 
new  addition  to  the  prevailing  Boston  beverage  of  Channing-and- 
water. 

The  eye  sometimes  reverses,  and  always  more  or  less  qualifies, 
the  judgment  formed  without  its  aid  ;  and  we  were  very  much 
disappointed,  on  arriving  at  the  Hall,  to  find  the  place  crowded, 
and  no  chance  of  a  near  view  of  the  speaker.  The  only  foothold 


17Q  EMERSON    AS    A    BOY. 

to  be  had,  was  up  against  the  farthest  wall ;  and  a  row  of 
unsheltered  gas-lights  blazed  between  us  and  the  pulpit,  with  one 
at  either  ear-tip  of  the  occupant,  drowning  the  expression  of  his 
face  completely  in  the  intense  light  a  little  behind  it.  To  look 
at  him  at  all,  was  to  do  so  with  needles  through  the  eyes,  and  we 
take  the  trouble  to  define  this,  by  way  of  a  general  protest  against 
the  unshaded  gas-burners  of  the  Tabernacle,  Stuyvesant  Institute, 
and  other  public  rooms — where  an  ophthalmia  is  very  likely  to  be 
added  to  the  bad  air  and  hard  seats  with  which  the  "  evening's 
entertainment"  is  presented. 

The  single  look  we  were  enabled  to  give  Mr.  Emerson,  as  the 
applause  announced  that  he  had  come  into  the  pulpit,  revealed  to 
us  that  it  was  a  man  we  had  seen  a  thousand  times,  and  with 
whose  face  our  memory  was  familiar  ;  though,  in  the  sidewalk 
portrait-taking  by  which  we  had  treasured  his  physiognomy,  there 
was  so  little  resemblance  to  the  portrait  taken  from  reading  him, 
that  we  should  never  have  put  the  two  together,  probably,  except 
by  personal  identification.  We  remember  him  perfectly,  as  a 
boy  whom  we  used  to  see  playing  about  Chauncey  Place  and 
Summer-street — one  of  those  pale  little  moral-sublimes  with  their 
shirt  collars  turned  over,  who  are  recognized  by  Boston  school 
boys  as  having  "fathers  that  are  Unitarians"— and  though  he 
came  to  his  first  short  hair  about  the  time  that  we  came  to  our 
first  tail-coat,  six  or  eight  years  behind  us,  we  have  never  lost 
sight  of  him.  In  the  visits  we  have  made  to  Boston,  of  late 
years,  we  have  seen  him  in  the  street  and  remembered  having 
always  seen  him  as  a  boy — very  little  suspecting  that  there 
walked,  in  a  form  long  familiar,  the  deity  of  an  intellectual  altar, 
upon  which,  at  that  moment,  burned  a  fire  in  our  bosom. 

Emerson's  voice  is  up  to  his  reputation.     It  has  a  curious 


IMPRESSION   THROUGH   EYE    OR   EAR.  171 


contradiction,  which  we  tried  in  vain  to  analyze  satisfactorily — 
an  outwardly  repellant  and  inwardly  reverential  mingling  of 
qualities,  which  a  musical  composer  would  despair  of  blending 
into  one.  It  bespeaks  a  life  that  is  half  contempt,  half  adoring 
recognition,  and  very  little  between.  But  it  is  noble,  altogether. 
And  what  seems  strange  is  to  hear  such  a  voice  proceeding  from 
such  a  body.  It  is  a  voice  with  shoulders  in  it,  which  he  hag 
not — with  lungs  in  it  far  larger  than  his — with  a  walk  in  it  which 
the  public  never  see — with  a  fist  in  it,  which  his  own  hand  never 
gave  him  the  model  for — and  with  a  gentleman  in  it,  which  his 
parochial  and  "  bare  necessariss-of-life"  sort  of  exterior,  gives  no 
other  betrayal  of.  We  can  imagine  nothing  in  nature — (which 
seems,  too,  to  have  a  type  for  everything) — like  the  want  of 
correspondence  between  the  Emerson  that  goes  in  at  the  eye,  and 
the  Emerson  that  goes  in  at  the  ear.  We  speak,  (as  we 
explained,)  without  having  had  an  opportunity  to  study  his  face — 
acquaintance  with  features,  as  every  body  knows,  being  like  the 
peeling  of  an  artichoke,  and  the  core  of  a  face,  to  those  who  know 
it,  being  very  unlike  the  eight  or  ten  outside  folds  that  stop  the 
eye  in  the  beginning.  But  a  heavy  and  vase-like  blossom  of  a 
magnolia,  with  fragrance  enough  to  perfume  a  whole  wilderness, 
which  should  be  lifted  by  a  whirlwind  and  dropped  into  a  branch 
of  an  aspen,  would  not  seem  more  as  if  it  never  could  have  grown 
there,  than  Emerson's  voice  seems  inspired  and  foreign  to  his 
visible  and  natural  body.  Indeed,  (to  use  one  of  his  own 
similitudes,)  his  body  seems  "  never  to  have  broken  the  umbilical 
cord"  which  held  it  to  Boston,  while  his  soul  has  sprung  to  the 
adult  stature  of  a  child  of  the  universe,  and  his  voice  is  the 
utterance  of  the  soul  only.  It  is  one  of  his  fine  remarks,  that 
"  it  makes  a  great  difference  to  the  force  of  any  sentence  whether 


172  KEY    TO    STYLE. 


a  man  is  behind  it  or  no" — but,  without  his  voice  to  make  the 
ear  stand  surety  for  his  value,  the  eye  would  look  for  the  first 
time  on  Emerson  and  protest  his  draft  on  admiration,  as  not 
"  payable  at  sight." 

The  first  twenty  sentences,  which  we  heard,  betrayed  one  of 
the  smaller  levers  of  Emerson's  power  of  style,  which  we  had  not 
detected  in  reading  him.  He  works  with  surprises.  A  man  who 
should  make  a  visit  of  charity,  and,  after  expressing  all  proper 
sympathy,  should  bid  adieu  to  the  poor  woman,  leaving  her  very 
grateful  for  his  kind  feelings,  but  should  suddenly  return,  after 
shutting  the  door,  and  give  her  a  guinea,  would  produce  just  the 
effect  of  his  most  electric  sentences.  You  do  not  observe  it  in 
reading,  because  you  withhold  the  emphasis  till  you  come  to  the 
key-word.  But,  in  delivery,  his  cadences  tell  you  that  the 
meaning  is  given,  and  the  interest  of  the  sentence  all  over, 
when — flash  ! — comes  a  single  word  or  phrase,  like  lightning 
after  listened-out  thunder,  and  illuminates,  with  astonishing 
vividness,  the  cloud  you  have  striven  to  see  into.  We  can  give, 
perhaps,  a  partial  exemplification  of  it,  by  a  description  rather 
than  a  quotation  of  a  droll  and  graphic  sketch,  which  he  drew  in 
his  lecture,  of  his  first  impression  of  Englishmen  on  the  road. 
The  audience  had  already  laughed  in  two  or  three  places,  and — 
with  the  intention  to  be  longer  attended  to,  on  that  point,  quite 
gone  out  of  his  eyes — he  was  fumbling  with  his  manuscript  to 
look  for  the  next  head — when  the  closing  word,  just  audible, 
threw  us  all  into  a  fit  of  laughter.  "  The  Englishman,"  (if  we 
may  paraphrase  rather  than  quote,  for  it  is  impossible  to  recal  the 
subtle  collocation  of  his  words,)  "  dresses  to  please  himself.  He 
puts  on  as  many  coats,  trowsers  and  wrappers  as  he  likes,  and, 
while  he  respects  others'  rights,  is  unaffected  by,  and  unconscious 


EXPONENT   THOUGHTS.  173 

, 
of  the  observation  of  those  around  him.    He  is  an  island,  as  England 

is.  He  is  a  bulky  and  sturdy  mass,  with  his  clothes  built  up 
about  his  body,  and  he  lives  in,  thinks  in,  and  speaks  from,  his 

building."  To  the  listener,  this  last  word,  which  was  dug 

out,  smelted,  coined  and  put  away  to  be  produced  and  used  with 
cautious  and  artistic  effectiveness,  seems  an  accident  of  that 
moment's  suggestion — as  new  a  thing  to  the  orator  as  to  himself, 
and  which  he  came  very  near  not  hearing,  as  it  came  very  near 
not  being  said. 

We  are  gossiping  only — not  trying  to  estimate  or  criticise. 
What  our  readers  might  not  otherwise  get  at,  is  what  we  aim  to 
give — in  this  as  in  most  else  that  we  describe  editorially. 
Emerson  is  too  great  a  man  to  be  easily  or  triflingly  appreciated. 
The  more  studied  as  well  as  more  properly  deferential  views  which 
we  entertain,  of  his  nature  and  power,  we  leave  unexpressed, 
because  others  are  likely  to  do  it  better  (as  is  shown  in  another 
column)  and  because  we  write,  stans  in  uno  pede,  and  can  let  the 
ink  dry  on  nothing.  We  can  only  say,  of  this  Lecture  on 
England,  that  it  was,  as  all  is  which  he  does,  a  compact  mass  of 
the  exponents  of  far-reaching  thoughts — stars  which  are  the 
pole-points  of  universes  beyond — and,  at  each  close  of  a  sentence, 
one  wanted  to  stop  and  wonder  at  that  thought,  before  being 
hurried  to  the  next.  He  is  a  suggestive,  direction-giving,  soul- 
fathoming  mind,  and  we  are  glad  there  are  not  more  such.  A 
few  Emersons  would  make  the  every-day  work  of  one's  mind 
intolerable. 

Let  us  close  by  giving  our  readers  an  advance-taste  of  a  grand 
similitude  with  which  he  closed  his  Lecture,  and  which  we  see  is 
not  given  in  the  newspaper  reports  of  it.  It  is  one  of  those 
Titanic  thoughts  that  would  alone  make  a  reputation,  and  a 


174  ENGLAND'S    BANYAN. 


prophetic  metaphor  of  England's  power,  for  which  Victoria 
should  name  one  of  her  annual  babies  Emerson.  After  some 
very  bold  and  fearless  comment  on  the  croaking  that  predicts  the 
speedy  downfall  of  England,  he  compared  her  to  the  banyan  tree, 
which,  it  will  be  remembered,  sends  up  shoots  from  its  roots  that 
become,  themselves,  huge  trunks  of  parent  vegetation.  "  She 
has  planted  herself  on  that  little  island,"  he  said,  "  like  the 
banyan  tree,  and  her  roots  have  spread  under  the  sea,  and  come  up 
on  far  away  continents  and  in  every  quarter  of  the  world, 
flowering  with  her  language  and  laws,  and  forever  perpetuating 
her,  though  the  first  trunk  dismember  and  perish."  In  his  own 
words,  this  thought  will  have  as  banyan  an  eternity  as  England. 


SECOND  LOOK  AT  EMERSON, 

EMERSON  handles  things  without  gloves,  as  everybody  knows. 
He  has  climbed  above  the  atmosphere  of  this  world  and  kicked 
away  the  ladder — holding  no  deferential  communication,  that 
is  to  say,  with  any  of  the  intermediate  ladder-rounds  or  de 
grees  of  goodness.  If  he  descends  at  all,  it  is  quite  to  the 
ground,  otherwise  he  is  out  of  reach — up  with  the  Saviour  or 
down  with  Lazarus  and  his  sores.  We  intended,  in  the  present 
number  of  our  paper,  to  have  given  a  careful  illustration  of  this — 

in  some  remarks  upon  Mr.  Emerson's  last  lecture  and  his  works 

but  head  and  hand  out  of  condition  for  a  few  days,  has  prevented 
this,  as  it  will  account,  (to  subscribers  and  correspondents,)  for 
other  short-comings  of  our  bespoken  time  and  pen.  We  only 
wish,  just  now,  to  record,  before  we  lose  hold  of  it,  an  instance  of 
the  boldness  with  which  Mr.  Emerson  speaks,  from  his  super- 
atmospheric  elevation— instructing  our  readers,  at  the  same  time, 
as  to  his  view  of  the  principle  of  Socialism,  now  so  vigorously  at 
work  among  us. 

As  among  the  "  Signs  of  the  Times"  (which  formed  the  subject 
of  his  Lecture)  he  spoke  with  reverential  admiration  of  the 
Apostleships  of  Fourier  and  Owen — lauding  those  reformers  so 


176  SOCIALISM. 


highly,  indeed,  as  to  draw  a  murmur  of  satisfaction  from  the 
Listen-to-reason-dom  which  formed  the  greater  part  of  his 
audience,  and  hisses  from  the  few  believers  in  things  as  they  are, 
who  had  been  brought  thither  by  curiosity.  Of  the  main  Socialist 
aim,  to  distribute  the  means  of  human  happiness  more  equally,  he 
apparently  could  not  speak  admiringly  enough — but  he  scouted, 
very  emphatically,  the  possibility  of  any  general  community  of 
existence,  as  a  destruction  of  the  poetry  of  individual  and  family 
separation,  and  as  altogether  "  culinary  and  mean."  Level  all 
men,  he  said,  and  they  would  commence  to  unequalize  to-morrow 
— those  who  had  once  got  the  upper  hand  in  wealth  and  power 
being  able  and  likely  to  get  it  again.  The  similitude  with  which 
he  illustrated  the  impossibility  of  commonizing  and  equalizing 
great  men,  as  well  as  the  less  gifted  and  ordinary,  will  be  enough 
to  complete  the  reader's  idea  of  Emerson's  extent  of  belief  in 
Socialism,  while  at  the  same  time  it  makes  an  easily  remembered 
frame  on  which  to  embroider  the  stray  threads  of  its  argument 
and  progress.  u  Spoons  and  skimmers,"  said  he,  "  you  can 
make  lie  undistinguishably  together — but  vases  and  statues 
require  each  a  pedestal  for  itself." 

We  went  early,  to  get  a  seat  where  we  could  see  Emerson,  and 
were  struck  with  the  character  of  his  audience,  most  of  whom  we 
knew  by  repute.  We  doubt  whether  any  man,  but  this  lecturer, 
could  draw  together  so  varied  an  assemblage,  and  yet  probably 
none  were  there  who  had  not  a  point  of  contact  with  the  mind 
they  came  to  enjoy.  Mr.  Charles  King  was  there,  with  his 
combined  likeness  to  Aristotle  and  Epicurus ;  Mrs.  Kirkland,  with 
her  fine-chiselled  aristocratic  features  and  warm  bright  eye  ;  Mr. 
Andrew  Jackson  Davis,  the  Revelations-man,  looking  as  if 
thought  had  never  left  a  foot-print  on  his  apprentice  face ;  Miss 


OVER-SAYING.  177 


Sedgwick,  with  thought  and  care  stranded  on  the  beach  of  her 
countenance  by  the  ebb  of  youth ;  Mr.  G-reeley,  with  his  face 
fenced  in  by  regularity  and  culture,  while  the  rest  of  him  is  left 
"  in  open  common  ;"  half  a  dozen  of  the  men  who  live  for 
Committees  and  influence ;  six  or  eight  of  the  artists  who  are 
painting  away  the  time  till  the  millennium  comes;  several 
unappreciated  poets ;  one  or  two  strong-minded  wealthy  men  who 
are  laying  up  a  reserve  of  intellect  against  what  Capt.  Cuttle 
calls  a  "rewarse";  and,  as  well  as  we  could  see,  few  or  no 
ordinary  people.  If  Emerson  would  come  to  New  York,  and 
invite  just  that  audience  to  gather  around  him  and  form  a 
congregation  of  Listeners-to-reason,  with  or  without  pulpit,  we 
are  very  sure  that  he  might  become  the  centre  of  a  very  well- 
chosen  society — form  it  into  a  club  or  gather  it  around  a  pulpit. 
Either  way,  New  York  is  the  place  for  him,  we  think. 
****** 

That  "  critics,"  as  Sir  Henry  Wotton  said,  "  are  brushers  of 
noblemen's  clothes."  one  feels  very  sensibly  and  reprovingly,  in 
turning  a  pen  to  write  any  comment  on  Emerson.  He  says  so 
many  wonderful,  and  wonderfully  true  and  good  things,  in  one 
of  his  Delphic  lectures,  that,  to  find  any  fault  with  him,  seems 
like  measuring  thunder  by  its  echo  down  a  back  alley.  Yet,  with 
all  his  inspired  intuition,  he  is  not  careful  enough  not  to  over-say 
things.  To  point  an  antithesis,  he  will  put,  into  his  unforgetable 
words,  that  which  leaves  mistrust  in  the  ear  when  the  music  stops 
tingling.  One  feels  vexed,  not  that  he  should  have  been  careless 
enough  to  do  what  he  likes,  being  Emerson,  but  that  there  should 
have  been  a  miscellaneous  audience  there,  to  hear  and  remember 
it  against  him. 

Yet  we  never  saw  a  more  intellectually  picked  audience  than 

8* 


178  *  MENTAL    CENTURIONS. 

our  Prophet  of  the  Intuitive  draws  together.  From  the  great 
miscellany  of  New  York  they  come  selectively  out,  like  steel 
filings  out  of  a  handfull  of  sand  to  a  magnet.  It  would  be  worth 
while  to  induce  such  nucleal  men  to  lecture  in  large  cities,  if  only 
to  discover  what  particles  belong  to  that  shape  of  crystal — what 
beads  fit  together  on  one  string — how  the  partakers  of  one  level 
of  intellect  are  scattered  through  the  different  levels  of  politics, 
religion  and  society.  We  should  very  much  like  a  catalogue  of 
Emerson's  audiences,  as  minds  which  you  could  address,  like  the 
centurions  of  the  Army  of  Opinion,  with  reasons,  to  be  passed  by 
them  to  the  multitude  in  the  shape  of  commands. 

We  made  several  memoranda  of  thoughts  in  Emerson's  lecture 
with  which  to  gem  a  paragraph  for  our  readers,  but  we  find  that 
we  should  do  injustice  to  them  without  giving  the  surroundings, 
and  we  will  wait  till  they  are  published,  (as  we  trust  these  lec 
tures  soon  will  be,)  and  give  them  in  the  safer  shape  of  a  column 
of  "  Spice  Islands." 


CALHOUN  AND  BENTOtf, 

THOSE  who  take  no  part  in  politics,  or  who  look  on  the  two 
opposing  parties  as  upon  two  sides  of  a  pyramid — correcting  each 
other's  leanings,  and  holding  the  strength  of  the  country  between 
them — are  still  interested  sometimes  to  know  the  shape  in  which 
the  corner-stones  are  hewn — the  grain  and  mark  from  nature 
with  which  eminent  men  are  visible  to  their  fellows.  The  two 
great  Southern  Democrats,  Calhoun  and  Benton,  were  figuring  in 
strong  relief  recently  in  the  Senate,  and,  in  a  memorandum  book, 
wherein  we  record  any  chance  approach  of  ours  to  the  personal 
orbit  of  a  star,  we  put  ink  on  the  impressions  we  received  of  these 
two,  in  a  week's  observation,  and  herewith  we  present  them  to 
our  readers — adding  only  the  conjunctions  and  prepositions,  left 
out,  so  universally,  in  things  written  to  be  read  when  one  is  be 
yond  responsibilities  of  grammar. 

BENTON  is  a  caricature  likeness  of  Louis  Philippe — the  same 
rotundity,  the  same  pear-shaped  head,  and  about  the  same 
stature.  The  physical  expression  of  his  face  predominates.  His 
lower  features  are  drilled  into  imperturbable  suavity,  while  the 
eye,  that  undrillable  tale-teller,  twinkles  of  inward  slyness  as  a 
burning  lamp- wick  does  of  oil-  He  is  a  laborious  builder-up  of 


ISO  BENTON. 


himself — acting  by  syllogistic  forecast,  never  by  impulses.  He  is 
pompously  polite,  and  never  abroad  without  "  Executive"  man 
ners.  He  has  made  up  his  mind  that  oratory,  if  not  a  national 
weakness,  is  an  un-Presidential  accomplishment,  and  he  delivers 
himself  in  the  Senate  with  a  subdued  voice,  like  a  judge  deciding 
upon  a  cause  which  the  other  Senators  had  only  argued.  He 
wears  an  ample  blue  cloak,  and  a  broad-brimmed  hat  with  a  high 
crown,  and  lives,  moves,  and  has  his  being,  in  a  faith  in  himself 
which  will  remove  mountains  of  credulity.  Though  representing 
a  State  two  thousand  miles  off,  he  resides  regularly  at  Washing 
ton,  drawing  a  handsome  income  from  his  allowance  of  mileage, 
and  paying  rare  and  brief  visits  to  his  constituency,  whose  votes 
he  has  retained  for  more  than  twenty  years — an  unaccountable 
exception  to  the  anti- conservative  rotation  of  the  country's  gifts 
of  office. 

MR.  CALHOUN  lives  in  his  mind,  and  puts  a  sort  of  bathing- 
dress  value  on  his  body.  There  is  a  "temporary-looking  tuck 
away  of  his  beard  and  hair,  as  if  they  would  presently  be  better 
combed  in  another  place — mouth  and  eyes  kepf  clear,  only,  for  a 
brief  life-swim  in  the  ocean  of  politics.  He  is  tall,  hollow- 
chested,  and  emaciated,  and  both  face  and  figure  are  concave, 
with  the  student's  bend  forward.  He  smiles  easily  when  spoken 
to — indeed  with  rather  a  simple  facility — though,  in  longer  con 
versation,  he  gives  his  eye  to  the  speaker,  barely  in  recognition 
of  an  idea — with  a  most  "  verbum  sap"  withdrawal  from  talka 
tiveness.  When  speaking  in  the  Senate  he  is  a  very  startling 
looking  man.  His  skin  lies  sallow  ahd  loose  on  the  bold  frame 
of  his  face — his  stiff  gray  hair  spreads  off  from  rather  a  low  fore 
head  with  the  semicircular  radiation  of  the  smoke  from  a  wheel  of 
fireworks  just  come  to  a  stand  still — the  profuse  masses  of  white 


CALHOUN.  181 


beard  in  his  throat  catch  the  eye  like  the  smoulder  of  a  fire  under 
his  chin — and  his  eyes,  bright  as  coals,  move  with  jumps,  as  if 
he  thought  in  electric  leaps  from  one  idea  to  another.  He 
dresses  carelessly,  walks  the  street  absent-mindedly,  and  in 
treated  with  the  most  marked  personal  respect  and  involuntary 
deference,  by  his  brother  senators  and  the  diplomatists  of  Wash 
ington.  He  is  a  great  man — probably  an  ambitious  one — but  in 
the  Senate,  a  few  days  since,  he  indignantly  denied  the  charge  of 
"  making  tracks"  for  the  Presidency.  That  high  horse  has  been 
so  "  promiscuously"  ridden  of  late,  that  he  would  doubtless  look 
twice  at  the  stirrups  before  taking  the  saddle  with  its  associations. 


MRS,  FANNY  KEMBLE  BUTLER, 

WE  doubt  whether  we  were  ever  present  at  a  performance,  the 
interest  of  which  was  so  difficult  to  analyze,  as  the  one  of  Mrs. 
Butler's  Readings  which  we  have  had  the  fortunate  leisure  to  at 
tend.  The  curiosity  to  see  the  lady  whose  private  life  has  so 
freely  fed  the  appetite  for  gossip  through  the  public  papers, 
would  account  for  but  a  small  portion  of  it.  The  attention 
which  she  commanded,  to  the  last  syllable  of  the  play  from 
which  she  read,  was  of  the  most  abstract  and  eager  intensity — 
the  silence  being  so  absolute  that  the  conversation  of  the  hack- 
men  at  the  distant  street  door  in  Broadway  was  an  annoying  in 
terruption.  Yet,  mere  rhetorical  command  of  an  audience  it  was 
not,  either  ;  for  the  play  was  read  with  singularly  little  variety  of 
dramatic  expression,  and  many  passages,  it  seemed  to  us,  quite 
awry  from  the  obvious  mood  and  meaning  of  the  character  repre 
sented. 

Mrs.  Butler  entered,  from  the  screen  near  her  desk,  with  a 
degree  of  agitation  which  we  were  not  prepared  to  expect,  in  one 
who  had  been  so  much  before  the  public.  Before  sitting,  she 
with  difficulty  controlled  her  breath  sufficiently  to  say,  "  I  shall 
have  the  honor  of  reading  Macbeth  to  you," — a  prepared  intro- 


PERSONAL   APPEARANCE.  183 


ductory  speech,  the  brief  contemptuousness  of  which  was  cor 
roborated,  by  a  movement  whose  careless  inelegance  would  other 
wise  have  been  un-instinctive,  viz. : — putting  her  foot  out  behind 
and  drawing  her  chair  under  her  with  her  heel.  The  powerful 
struggle  to  assume  ease  was  a  curiously  fine  display  of  self-wrest 
ling,  however,  and,  to  the  indifferent  reading  of  the  dramatis  per 
sona  which  accompanied  it,  the  audience  were  breathlessly  atten 
tive.  The  lecturess  was  in  a  full  evening  dress  of  white,  very 
elegantly  made  and  worn,  and  the  arrangement  of  her  simply 
knotted  hair,  showing  her  well-shaped  head  to  great  advantage, 
could  not  have  been  improved,  even  in  the  sketch  of  a  Lawrence. 
Our  distant  readers  may  perhaps  like  to  know,  that  Mrs.  Butler 
is  rather  under  the  middle  size,  extremely  robust  in  shoulders, 
though  not  large  in  the  waist,  with  a  powerfully  muscular  arm, 
features  small  and  regularly  compact,  the  finest  possible  teeth, 
dark"  and  Siddons-like  eyes,  and  lips  expressive  of  little  but 
antagonism  and  resolution. 

The  witch  Scenes,  in  the  first  Act,  were  finely  read,  and  the 
development  they  made,  of  the  reader's  tone  of  voice  and  com 
pleteness  of  enunciation,  was  very  satisfactory.  A  shade  nearer 
to  a  masculine  voice  than  a  proper  contralto,  Mrs.  Butler's  tones 
are  still  richly  mellow,  and  nothing  could  well  be  more  admirably 
beautiful  than  her  articulation  and  pronunciation  of  the  English 
language.  In  her  subsequent  distribution  of  force  and  emphasis 
to  the  speeches  of  the  different  characters,  there  was,  we  thought, 
the  constantly  recurring  error  of  giving  energy  where  none  was 
intended  by  the  author.  Lady  Macbeth's  welcome  to  the  guests 
at  the  banquet,  was  expressed  more  like  a  defiance  than  a  wel 
come,  for  instance,  and  Macbeth's  relenting  declaration, 


184  SWEET    READING. 


"  I  dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man ; 
Who  dares  do  more,  is  none," 

was  thundered  at  the  top  of  the  reader's  voice,  like  an  argument 
in  a  passion. 

The  exquisite  passages  of  poetry  with  which  this  grand  play 
abounds,  however,  seemed  well  recognized  by  Mrs.  Butler,  and 
her  reading  of  two  or  three  of  them,  though  they  were  not  the 
efforts  upon  which  she  herself  set  any  pains  or  value,  made  a 
music  in  our  ear  that  we  shall  not  readily  forget.  Thus,  in  the 
first  Act : — 

Duncan. — This  castle  has  a  pleasant  seat ;  the  air 

Nimbly  and  sweetly  recommends  itself 

Unto  our  gentle  senses. 
Banquo. — This  guest  of  summer 

The  temple- haunting  martlet,  does  approve, 

By  his  loved  mansionry,  that  heaven's  breath 

Smells  wooingly  here ;  no  jutty,  frieze, 

Buttress,  nor  coigne  of  vantage,  but  this  bird 

Hath  made  his  pendent  bed  and  procreant  cradle : 

Where  they  most  breed  and  haunt  I  have  observed 

The  air  is  delicate. 

The  dainty  elegance  with  which  Duncan  and  Banquo  said  these 
sweet  words,  through  Mrs.  Butler's  lips,  made  us  feel  the  influ 
ence  of  their  death,  throughout  the  play,  as  we  had  never  felt  it 
before.  And  the  following  passages  were  read  with  a  veritable 
deliciousness : 

Macbeth. — How  does  your  patient,  Doctor  ? 
Doctor. — Not  so  sick,  my  lord, 

As  she  is  troubled  with  thick-coming  fancies 

That  keep  her  from  her  rest. 
Macbeth. — Cure  her  of  that : 


LADY    MACBETH.  185 


Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased ; 

Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow ; 

Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain ; 

And  with  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote, 

Cleanse  the  stufFd  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff 

Which  weighs  upon  the  heart  ? 
Doctor. — Therein  the  patient 

Must  minister  to  himself. 
Macbeth, — Throw  physic  to  the  dogs.     I'll  none  of  it. 

And  these  lines  : — 

Malcom. — What,  man !  ne'er  pull  your  hat  upon  your  brows : 

Give  sorrow  words :  the  grief  that  does  not  speak 

Whispers  the  o'er-fraught  heart,  and  bids  it  break. 
Macduff. — My  children,  too  ? 
Malcom. — Wife,  children,  servants,  all. 
Macduff. — He  has  no  children.     All  my  pretty  ones  ? 

Did  you  say  all  ?     0  hell-kite  !  all  ? 

What  all  my  pretty  chickens  and  their  dam 

At  one  fell  swoop  ? 
Malcom. — Dispute  it  like  a  man. 
Macduff. — I  shall  do  so : 

But  I  must  also  feel  it  as  a  man. 

The  speeches  of  Lady  Macbeth  were  delivered  from  a  concep 
tion  probably  intensified  for  the  stage,  and  were  accordingly 
suited  to  the  demand  of  "  the  groundlings"  for  violence.  The 
following  passage  was  given  with  a  sort  of  frantic  fury  which  did 
not  express  what  it  is — a  self-possessed  purpose  of  stimulating 
Macbeth  to  the  murder  : — 

Lady  Macbeth. — When  you  durst  do  it,  then  you  were  a  man ; 
And,  to  be  more  than  what  you  were,  you  would 
Be  so  much  rr\pre  the  man.    Nor  time  nor  place 
Did  then  adhere,  and  yet  you  would  make  both  : 


186  MAGNETIC    SUPERIORITY. 


They  have  made  themselves,  and  that  their  fitness  now, 

Does  unmake  you.     I  have  given  suck ;  and  know 

How  tender  ;t  is  to  love  the  babe  that  milks  me  : 

I  would,  while  it  was  smiling  in  my  face, 

Have  plucked  my  nipple  from  its  boneless  gums 

And  dashed  the  brains  out,  had  I  so  sworn 

As  you  have  done  to  this. 
Macbeth. — If  we  should  fail — 
Lady  Macbeth.— We  fail ! 

But  screw  your  courage  to  the  sticking  place, 

And  we  '11  not  fail ! 
Macbeth. — Bring  forth  men  children  only ; 

For  thy  undaunted  metal  should  compose 

Nothing  but  males. 

We  have  skipped  a  few  lines,  as  the  reader  will  see;  to  include, 
in  this  last  extract,  Macbeth's  compliment  to  the  strenuous  char 
acter  of  his  wife,  which — either  from  the  gusto  with  which  it  was 
read,  or  the  suitableness  of  the  voice  and  air  of  the  reader  to  its 
spirit  and  meaning— produced  a  general  smile,  over  the  hushed 
and  admiring  audience. 

The  difference  of  magnetic  control  might  well  take  the  place  of 
physiognomy  and  phrenology,  in  all  estimates  of  the  higher  range 
of  human  beings,  and  it  is  only  by  the  laws  of  this  undefined 
science  that  Mrs.  Butler's  influence  upon  others  could  be  ex 
plained.  When  she  enters  a  room,  the  general  recognition  of  an 
unusually  powerful  nature  is  immediate  ;  and  this,  of  course,  ex 
cites  either  a  feeling  of  deference  or  resistance — the  former  pre 
vailing,  as  subordinate  natures  much  outnumber  the  magnetically 
unsubmissive.  There  is  natural  authority,  unaffected  conscious 
ness  of  overruling  power  of  purpose,  in  this  lady's  whole  physiog 
nomy,  tone  of  voice  and  manner.  Nature  has  furnished  the  war- 


AMERICAN   NASALITY.  187 


rant  for  this  in  a  proportionate  allowance  of  the  indefinable  power 
of  electric  personal  magnetism — an  influence  felt  as  readily  with 
out  acquaintance  and  without  reason  as  with— and  which  explains, 
probably,  Mrs-  Butler's  control  over  audiences,  as  it  does  the  ex 
cessive  devotion  of  her  friends  and  admirers,  and  the  equally 
positive  hostility  of  those  who  take  sides  against  her.  No  one 
could  listen  to  her  or  look  at  her,  for  five  minutes,  without  know 
ing  her  to  be  a  very  remarkable  person. 

By  the  way — as  a  missionary  of  sweet  voice — Mrs.  Butler  might 
dispense,  in  her  present  tour,  a  corrective  more  needed  in  this 
country  than  the  taste  that  comes  by  Operas.  From  Maine  to 
Georgia,  we  talk  through  our  noses — and,  as  this  lady  chances  to 
be,  even  among  English  women,  a  peculiarly  fine  example  of  a 
speaker  of  English  through  the  throat  and  lungs ,  the  opportunity 
of  using  these  Headings  as  a  tuning-key,  is  too  valuable  to  be 
lost.  Let  any  one  stand  at  the  door  of  the  Stuyvesant  Institute, 
as  the  audience  goes  out,  and,  with  the  absolute  music  of  Mrs. 
Butler's  softer  tones  in  his  memory,  listen  to  the  fashionable 
voices  of  the  passers  by  !  If  he  has  any  comparison  in  his  ear, 
he  will  wonder  inexpressibly  that  the  music  of  a  tone  is  not  more 
catching. 

We  should  be  willing  to  give  any  degree  of  offence  that  we 
could  afford,  if  we  could  provoke  curiosity  to  make  this  (now) 
easy  comparison.  The  audiences  at  these  Readings  are  of  the 
class  whose  pronunciation  is  heard  and  remarked  upon  by  the 
more  intelligent  foreigners  who  come  among  us,  and  (from  a  na 
tional  sensitiveness  which  may  be  reasoned  down,  but  won't  stay 
down),  we  are  not  a  little  interested  to  have  the  nasality,  by 
which  Americans  are  at  once  recognized  abroad,  corrected  by  our 
gentlemen  and  ladies.  Let  any  listener  to  Mrs.  Butler  observe 


188  PROPOSED    EXPERIMENT. 


how  noble  and  well-bred  seems  her  utterance  from  the  chest,  and 
(to  double  the  lesson)  how  it  adds  to  the  power  of  the  divine  gift 
of  language,  to  allow,  as  she  does  to  every  sound  a  liberal  and  free 
utterance,  and  to  every  word  its  proper  and  un-slighted  fulness. 
And  then  let  the  departing  and  delighted  auditor,  of  these  model 
tones,  take  the  first  sentence  uttered  on  the  way  home  ("  What  a 
pleasant  evening!"  for  example),  and  ring  it  against  any  remem 
bered  sentence  of  the  play  just  read.  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten, 
the  contrast  will  be  as  great  as  between  a  French  horn  and  a 
bagpipe. 


DANIEL  WEBSTER, 

UNDER    THE    SPELL    OF    JENNY    LINDAS    MUSIC. 

WE  had  a  pleasure,  the  other  evening,  which  we  feel  very 
unwilling  not  to  share  with  every  eye  to  which  there  is  a  road 
from  the  point  of  our  pen.  Three  or  four  thousand  people  saw 
it  with  us  ;  but,  as  there  are  perhaps  fifty  thousand  more,  to 
whom  the  pleasure  can  be  sent  by  these  roads  of  ink,  those  three 
or  four  thousand,  who  were  so  fortunate  as  to  be  present,  will 
excuse  the  repetition — possibly  may  thank  us,  indeed,  for 
enlarging  the  sympathy  in  their  enjoyment.  In  these  days  of 
magnetism,  life  seems  to  be  of  value,  only  in  proportion  as  we 
find  others  to  share  in  what  we  think  and  feel. 

It  was  perhaps  ten  minutes  before  the  appearance  of  Benedict's 
magic  stick ;  and,  in  running  our  eye  musingly  along  the  right  side 
of  the  crowded  galley  of  Tripler  Hall,  we  caught  sight  of  a  white 
object,  with  a  sparkling  dark  line  underneath,  around  which  a 
number  of  persons  were  just  settling  themselves  in  their  seats. 
Motionless  itself,  and  with  the  stir  going  on  around  it,  it  was  like 
a  calm  half  moon,  seen  over  the  tops  of  agitated  trees ;  or  like  a 
massive  magnolia  blossom,  too  heavy  for  the  breeze  to  stir, 
splendid  and  silent  amid  fluttering  poplar-leaves.  "VVe  raised  our 


190  WEBSTER   AND    JENNY    LIND. 


opera-glass,  with  no  very  definite  expectation,  and,  with  the  eye 
thus  brought  nearer  to  the  object,  lo  !  the  dome  over  the  temple  of 
Webster — the  forehead  of  the  great  Daniel,  with  the  two  glorious 
lamps  set  in  the  dark  shadow  of  its  architrave.  Not  expecting  to 
see  the  noble  Constitution-ist  in  such  a  crowd,  our  veins  tingled, 
as  veins  will  with  the  recognition  of  a  sudden  and  higher  presence, 
and,  from  that  moment,  the  interest  of  the  evening,  to  us,  was  to 
see  signs  of  the  susceptibility  of  such  a  mind  to  the  spells  of 
Jenny  Lind.  Slight  they  must  be,  of  course,  if  signs  were  to  be 
seen  at  all ;  but  the  interest  in  watching  for  them  was  no  less 
exciting — very  slight  variations,  of  the  "  bodies"  above  us, 
repaying  fully  the  patient  observation  of  the  astronomer. 

The  party  who  had  come  with  Mr.  Webster  were  "  his  lady" — 
(the  Americanism  of  that  synonym  for  "  wife,"  grew  out  of  our 
national  deference  to  woman,  and,  let  us  cherish  it) — the  newly- 
elected  Governor  of  the  State  and  his  lady,  and  General  Lyman. 
They  sat  in  the  centre  of  the  right  hand  side  of  the  First 
Gallery,  and,  behind  them,  the  crowd  had  gathered  and  stood 
looking  at  this  distinguished  party  with  deferential  curiosity. 
Republican  politeness  had  done  what  the  etiquette  of  a  Court 
would  do — stationed  one  of  the  masters  of  ceremony,  with  his 
riband  of  office,  to  pay  special  attention  to  these  honored 
strangers — and  it  chanced  to  bring  about  a  pleasant  incident.  It 
was  from  a  wish  Mr.  Webster  expressed,  accidentally  overheard 
by  this  attendant  and  conveyed  immediately  to  Jenny  Lind,  that 
she  was  induced  to  vary  the  opera  music  of  the  programme,  by 
the  introduction  of  a  mountain  song  of  her  own  Dalecarlia.  The 
audience,  delighted  with  the  change,  were  not  aware,  that,  for  it, 
they  were  indebted  to  a  remark  of  the  great  "  sky-clearer,"  thus 
spirited  away  from  the  cloud-edge  of  his  lips. 


MUSIC    OF    THUNDER.  191 


"We  must  remind  the  reader,  here,  that,  to  the  cultivation  of  the 
voice,  Mr.  "Webster's  delivery  shows  that  he  has  never  paid 
attention.  From  other  and  sufficient  advantages,  probably,  he 
has  never  felt  the  need  of  it.  His  ear,  consequently,  is  uneduca 
ted  to  melody  ;  and,  in  the  rare  instances  when  he  has  varied  his 
habitual  and  ponderous  cadences  by  a  burst  in  a  higher  key,  he 
has  surpassed  Art  with  the  more  sudden  impassioning  of  Nature. 
Though,  in  reading  a  speech  of  Webster's,  there  are  passages 
where  your  nostrils  spread  and  your  blood  fires,  you  may  have 
heard  the  same  speech  delivered,  with  no  impression  but  the 
unincumbered  profoundness  of  its  truth.  To  use  what  may  seem 
like  a  common-place  remark,  he  is  as  monotonous  as  thunder — 
but  it  is  because  thunder  has  no  need  to  be  more  varied  and 
musical,  that  Webster  leaves  the  roll  of  his  bass  unplayed  upon 
by  the  lightning  that  outstrips  it. 

We  were  not  surprised,  therefore,  that,  to  the  overtures  and 
parts  of  Operas  which  formed  the  first  two-thirds  of  the  evening's 
entertainment,  Webster  was  only  courteously  attentive.  He 
leaned  back,  with  the  stately  repose  which  marks  all  his  postures 
and  movements,  and,  conversing  between-whiles  with  his  friends 
on  either  side,  looked  on,  as  he  might  do  at  special  pleading  in  a 
court  of  Law.  It  was  at  the  close  of  one  of  those  tangled  skeins 
of  music  with  which  an  unpractised  brain  finds  it  so  difficult  to 
thread  the  needle  of  an  idea,  that  he  made  the  remark,  overheard 
by  the  attendant  and  taken  immediately  to  Jenny  Lind  : — u  Why 
doesn't  she  give  us  one  of  the  simple  mountain-songs  of  her  own 
land  ?" 

The  mountain-song  soon  poured  forth  its  loud  beginning, 
impatiently  claiming  sympathy  from  the  barren  summits  that 
alone  listen  where  it  is  supposed  to  be  sung.  The  voice  softened. 


192  JENNY    LINO'S    SPELL. 

soothed  with  its  own  outpouring — the  herdsman's  heart  wandered 
and  left  him  singing  forgetfully,  and  then  the  audience,  (as  if 
transformed  to  an  Ariel  that  "puts  a  girdle  ronnd  the  earth,") 
commenced  following  the  last  clear  note  through  the  distance. 
Away  it  sped,  softly  and  evenly,  a  liquid  arrow  through  more 
liquid  air,  lessening  with  the  sweetness  it  left  behind  it,  but 
fleeing  leagues  in  seconds,  and  with  no  errand  but  to  go  on 
unaltered  till  it  should  die — and,  behold  !  on  the  track  of  it,  with 
the  rest  of  us,  was  gone  the  heavy-winged  intellect  of  Webster ! 
We  had  listened  with  our  eyes  upon  him.  As  all  know  who  have 
observed  him,  his  habitual  first  mark  of  interest  in  a  new  matter, 
is  a  pull  he  gives  to  the  lobe  of  his  left  ear — as  if,  to  the  thought- 
intrenched  castle  of  his  brain,  there  were  a  portcullis  to  be 
lowered  at  any  sudden  summons  for  entrance.  The  tone  sped 
and  lessened,  and  Webster's  broad  chest  grew  erect  and  expanded. 
Still  on  went  the  entrancing  sound,  altered  by  distance  only,  and 
changeless  in  the  rapt  altitude  of  the  cadence — on — far  on — as 
if  only  upon  the  bar  of  the  horizon  it  could  faint  at  last — and 
forward  leaned  the  aroused  statesman,  with  his  hand  clasped  over 
the  balustrade,  his  head  raised  to  its  fullest  lift  above  his 
shoulders,  and  the  luminous  caverns  of  his  eyes  opened  wide  upon 
the  still  lips  of  the  singer.  The  note  died — and  those  around 
exchanged  glances  as  the  enchantress  touched  the  instrument 
before  her — but  Webster  sat  motionless.  The  breathless  stillness 
was  broken  by  a  tumult  of  applause,  and  the  hand  that  was  over 
the  gallery  moved  up  and  down  upon  the  cushion  with  unconscious 
assent,  but  the  spell  was  yet  on  him.  He  slowly  leaned  back, 
with  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  singer,  and,  suddenly  observing 
that  she  had  turned  to  him  after  curtsying  to  the  audience,  and 
was  repeating  her  acknowledgments  unmistakably  to  himself,  he 


WEBSTER    ENCHANTED.  193 


rose  to  his  feet  and  bowed  to  her,  with  the  grace  and  stateliness 
of  the  monarch  that  he  is.  It  was  not  much  to  see,  perhaps — 
neither  does  the  culmination  of  a  planet  differ,  very  distinguish- 
ably,  from  the  twinkle  of  a  lamp — but  we  congratulated  Jenny 
Lind,  with  our  first  thought,  after  it,  at  what  is  perhaps  her  best 
single  triumph  on  this  side  the  water,  the  sounding  of  America's 
deepest  mind  with  her  plummet  of  enchantment. 

The  "  Echo,"  and  the  "  Pasture  Song"  equally  delighted  Mr. 
Webster,  and,  after  each  of  them,  he  passed  his  broad-spread 
hand  from  his  brow  downwards,  (assisting  his  seldom  aroused 
features,  as  he  always  does,  in  their  recovery  of  repose  and 
gravity,)  and  responded  to  the  enthusiasm  of  the  friends  beside 
him,  with  the  pine-tree  nod  which,  from  his  deep-rooted  approba 
tion,  means  much.  Let  us  add,  by  the  way,  (what  we  heard 
very  directly,)  that  Mr.  Webster,  who  is  peculiar  for  the  instant 
completeness  with  which  he  usually  dismisses  public  amusements 
from  his  mind — little  entertained  by  them,  and  never  speaking 
of  them  in  conversation,  when  they  are  over — talked  much  of 
Jenny  Lind  after  the  concert,  remarking  very  emphatically, 
among  other  things,  that  it  was  a  new  revelation  to  him  of  the 
character  and  capability  of  the  human  voice.  The  angelic 
Swede — alone  with  many  memories,  as  she  will  be,  some  day — 
may  remember  with  pleasure  what  we  have  thus  recorded. 
9 


SIR  HENRY  BULWER, 

THE  new  English  Minister,  to  this  country,  is  a  younger 
brother  of  BULWER  the  novelist,  and,  perhaps,  a  man  of  as  much 
talent,  in  his  way.  As  our  readers  probably  know,  he  has  had  a 
large  influence  in  the  diplomacy  of  England  for  several  years,  and 
was,  last,  the  British  Minister  to  Spain.  He  is,  in  person, 
rather  under  the  middle  size,  very  slight,  pale,  and  of  an  intellect 
ual  cast  of  features.  His  manners  are  the  perfection  of  the  style 
most  prized  in  England,  though  rare  even  there — an  elegance  re 
duced  to  absolute  simplicity  and  nature — quiet,  gentle,  considerate 
of  others,  attentive  and  modest.  We  doubt  whether  there  is  a 
better  model  of  a  gentleman  in  the  world.  He  was,  some  years 
ago,  one  of  the  habitues  of  Lady  Blessington's,  and  certainly 
showed  to  advantage  in  comparison  with  the  elegant  men  who 
formed  that  brilliant  woman's  circle  of  friends.  Sir  Henry  talks 
or  listens  with  equal  willingness,  but  his  information,  on  any  sub 
ject  that  may  come  up,  is  sure  to  surprise,  and  his  earnest  truth 
fulness,  of  diction  and  expression,  impress  forcibly  at  the  time, 
but  still  more  when  it  is  remembered.  We  are  not  sure  that 
Washington  will  prove  an  atmosphere  in  which  he  may  best  shine  ; 
but,  appreciated  or  not,  he  cannot  fail  to  be  very  much  liked. 


SIR    HENRY    BULWER.  195 


General  Taylor,  we  venture  to  say,  will  find  him  a  man  after  his 
own  heart — totally  different  as  have  been  the  currents  of  their 
two  lives. 

It  will  be  a  pleasant  event  in  Washington  to  have  the  English 
embassy  open  house  under  the  auspices  of  the  gentler  sex.  Lady 
Bulwer  (we  believe  the  minister  was  made  a  Baronet  a  year  or 
two  ago)  is  of  noble  descent,  and,  like  all  English  ladies  of  her 
rank,  very  sure  to  entertain  with  the  best-toned  hospitality.  Our 
barrack  of  a  capital,  so  dependent  on  society  for  its  happiness, 
may  owe  much  to  a  lady's  ministrations  in  this  way,  as  the  charm 
ing  examples  of  the  Spanish  Minister's  house,  and  one  or  two 
others,  have  long  shown.  We  hope  Lady  Bulwer's  train  will 
comprise  two  or  three  young  English  ladies  of  her  own  class,  as 
well  as  the  gayer  class  of  attaches ,  who  follow,  of  course,  where 
the  Envoy  is  a  wedded  man  ;  and  that  the  British  Embassy  will 
be,  here,  what  it  is  in  the  capitals  of  The  Continent — the  model 
and  centre  of  all  things  courteous  and  hospitable. 


SAMUEL  LOVER, 

To  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  TRIBUNE: 

MR.  LOVER'S  arrival  among  us  is  both  more  and  less  of  an 
event  than  many  take  it  to  be — in  the  way  of  dramatic  exhibition, 
not  so  much,  and  in  the  way  of  a  remarkable,  presence,  much  more. 
My  impulse  to  write  to  you  is  partly  a  dread,  for  him,  of  the  rock 
Shakspeare  had  in  his  mind  when  he  said  "  Promising  is  the  very 
air  of  the  time,  Performance  is  ever  the  duller  for  his  act." 
From  various  causes  I  think  he  will  be  ultimately  better  appre 
ciated  in  this  country  than  he  ever  was  in  his  own — much  as  they 
think  of  him  in  England — but,  from  the  ordinary  mode  of  adver 
tisement,  and  from  the  common  phraseology  of  newspaper  notice, 
many  might  go  to  his  "  Irish  Evenings"  expecting  something 
more  pretentious  and  dramatic  than  they  would  find,  and  it  is 
against  this  possible  counter-current  of  disappointment  that  I 
wish  to  guard  his  first  appearance  among  us.  I  am  anxious,  for 
our  American  sake,  that  there  should  be  no  delay,  no  hesitancy, 
no  lack  of  completeness,  in  the  recognition  of  this  fine  spirit,  and 
it  is  from  having  had  my  heart  moved  like  an  instrument  under 
his  hand — as  the  hearts  of  all  are  who  -hear  him — that  I  feel  a 
strong  wish  for  his  coming  rightly  before  the  public. 


SAMUEL    LOVER.  197 


Lover  is,  as  you  know,  the  writer  of  songs  equal  (in  popular 
effect)  to  any  of  Burns 's.  He  is  the  author  of  Tales  of 
humor,  in  a  vein  in  which  he  has  no  equal.  His  songs  are  set  to 
his  own  music,  of  a  twin  genius  with  the  words  it  fuses.  His 
power  of  narration  is  peculiar  and  irresistible.  His  command  of 
that  fickle  drawbridge  between  tears  and  laughter — that  ticklish 
chasm  across  which  touch  Mirth  and  Pathos — is  complete  and  won 
derful.  He  is,  besides,  a  most  successful  play-writer,  and  one  of 
the  best  miniature  painters  living.  He  is  a  Crichton  of  the  arts  of 
joyance  for  eye  and  ear.  But  it  is  not  of  his  many  gifts  that  I 
am  now  particularly  aiming  to  remind  your  readers. 

I  wish,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  to  anticipate  our  knowledge  of 
Lover  as  a  man.  The  probability  is  that  nineteen  in  twenty,  of 
those  who  know  of  his  arrival,  remember  to  have  heard  of  him  as 
an  admired  frequenter  of  the  exclusive  circles  of  London,  and 
expect  to  see  a  finished  man  of  the  world,  whose  ore  of  genius 
has  been  tinseled  over  with  superfine  breeding,  and  whose  stamp 
from  Nature  only  comes  to  day-light  in  the  thought  of  his  songs. 
Their  curiosity  to  see  him,  indeed,  is  half  made  up  of  a  wish  to 
see  what  sort  of  a  man  gives  pleasure  to  Lords  and  Ladies,  Court 
Wits  and  Exclusives,  and  their  preconceived  ideal  is  of  a  very  fine 
gentleman,  of  polished  coolness,  high  art  in  his  music  and  man 
ners,  and  the  most  beautiful  concealment  of  his  necessary  con 
tempt  for  dollar-paying  Republicans.  Of  some  of  the  social 
celebrities  of  England  this  might  be  a  very  just  estimate  and  faith 
ful  ideal — but  to  Lover  such  anticipation  were  an  injustice,  and 
ojae  which  is  as  well  prevented  from  throwing  a  prejudice  over  his 
past  reputation. 

In  his  personal  appearance  Lover  has  no  smack  of  superfine 
clay.  He  looks  made  out  of  the  fresh  turf  of  his  country,  sound, 


198  STYLE    OF    THE    MAN. 


honest  and  natural.  He  is  careless  in  his  dress,  a  little  absent  in 
his  gait  and  manner,  just  short  and  round  enough  to  let  his  atmos 
phere  of  fun  roll  easily  about  him,  and,  if  frayed  at  all  in  the 
thread  of  his  nature,  a  little  marked  with  an  expression  of  care — 
the  result  of  years  of  anxieties  for  the  support  of  a  very  interest 
ing  family.  His  features  seem  to  use  his  countenance  as  a  hus 
sar  does  his  jacket — wearing  it  loosely  till  wanted — and  a  more 
mobile,  nervous,  changing  set  of  lineaments  never  played  photo 
graph  to  a  soul  within.  There  is  always  about  him  the  modest 
unconsciousness  of  a  man  who  feels  that  he  can  'always  employ 
his  thoughts  better  than  upon  himself,  and  he  therefore  easily 
slips  himself  off,  and  becomes  the  spirit  of  his  song  or  story.  He 
does  nothing  like  an  actor.  If  you  had  heard  him  singing  the 
same  song,  by  chance,  at  an  Inn,  you  would  have  taken  him  to  be 
a  jewel  of  a  good  fellow,  of  a  taste  and  talent  deliciously  peculiar 
and  natural,  but  who  would  spoil  at  once  with  being  found  out  by 
a  connoisseur  and  told  of  his  merits.  He  is  the  soul  of  pure, 
sweet,  truthful  Irish  nature,  though  with  the  difference  from 
others,  that,  while  he  represents  it  truly,  and  is  a  piece  of  it  him 
self,  he  has  also  the  genius  to  create  ivhat  inspires  it.  To  an  ap 
preciative  mind,  it,  of  course,  adds  powerfully  to  the  influence  of 
a  song,  that  the  singer  himself  conceived  the  sweet  thought,  put 
it  into  words  and  melted  it  into  music. 

Lover  (I  am  trying  all  this  time  to  convey)  is  so  much  better  a 
thing  than  a  fine  gentleman,  or  an  accomplished  actor  or  musi 
cian — so  genuine  a  piece  of  exuberantly  gifted  Nature,  still  un 
spoiled  from  the  hand  of  God — that  the  appeal,  for  appreciation 
of  him,  is  to  that  within  us  which  is  deeper  than  nationality  or 
fashion — to  our  freshest  and  most  unsunned  fountain  of  human 
liking.  He  has  been  recognized  and  admired,  for  his  nature^  in 


GENIUS    AND    NATURE.  199 


the  most  artificial  society  in  the  world.  It  would  be  strange,  in 
deed,  if  he  should  find  himself  farther  from  appreciation  of  it,  in 
a  new  Republic. 

I  have  given  you  no  idea  of  his  peculiar  style,  but  have  endea 
vored  only  to  say  what  was  not  likely  to  be  said  soon  enough  by 
those  unacquainted  with  him. 

Yours  truly, 

W. 


MRS,  ANNA  BISHOP, 

are  not  grasshoppers.  We  are  not  so  devoted  to  the  sing 
ing  Muses,  (that  is  to  say,)  that,  like  the  slender-legged  dilettanti" 
of  the  fields,  we  have  listened  ourselves  into  echoes.  Our  readers, 
(for  whom  we  live,  move,  and  do  our  admiring,)  are  content  to 
know  the  name  and  magnitude  of  the  planets  among  the  prima 
donnas,  but  are  willing  to  let  the  lesser  ladies  take  their  u  milky 
way,"  named  but  in  nebulae,  if  telescoped  at  all. 

What  our  country  and  Southern  readers  wish  to  know  about 
Mrs.  Bishop,  is  the  fish  to  be  nibbled  for  in  our  inkstand  this 
morning,  and  we  shall  endeavor,  with  a  single  eye  to  their  satis 
faction,  to  catch  it,  and  it  only.  The  critics  are  quarrelling  with 
scientific  bodkins,  about  her  ear  and  her  voice,  but  we  take  it  our 
readers  care  little  to  know  whether  her  voice  is  a  u  sfogato"  or  a 
filo  di  soprano — whether  she  commits  the  harmonic  atrocity  of 
consecutive  fifths,  or  gluts  the  ear  with  her  excess  of  the  dimin 
ished  seventh.  They  (our  charming  subscribers)  want  a  straight 
forward,  comprehensible,  daguerreotypical,  and  as-personal-as- 
possible  account,  of  who  she  is,  how  much  of  a  beauty,  whether 
well  dressed,  and  (last  and  altogether  least)  what  is  her  particu 
lar  style  of  singing.  At  this  we  go. 


MRS.    BISHOP'S    FEATURES.  20  i 


Mrs.  Bishop  should  be  called  Lady  Bishop,  for  her  husband  is 
a  Knight ;  and  if  she  has  a  right  to  his  name  at  all,  she  has  a 
right  to  his  title.  How  she  comes  to  be  away  from  Sir  Henry, 
and  under  the  charge  of  an  old  gentleman  of  sixty,  who  weighs 
three  hundred  pounds,  and  plays  the  harp  divinely,  it  is  each 
subscriber's  business  to  guess  for  himself.  Public  opinion  has 
put  in  practice  its  decision,  that  questions  of  this  nature  shall 
only  be  raised  to  the  professional  prejudice  of  ?m-attractive  wo 
men.  Signor  Bochsa,  we  may  add  here,  is  the  modern  King 
David,  never  named  without  his  harp,  the  long  known  teacher  of 
England's  aristocratic  learners  upon  this  becoming  instrument, 
a  wonderful  player  thereupon,  and  has  been  a  very  handsome 
man  in  his  day. 

In  sculpture,  we  believe,  the  face  is  finished  last,  and  of  the 
great  number  of  women  who  seem  to  have  been  slighted  only  in 
the  finishing,  Mrs.  Bishop  is  one.  Her  figure  and  movements 
seem  perfection,  but  her  features  are  irregular,  and  it  is  necessary 
to  be  very  near  her,  to  see  what  expression  has  done  to  supply 
the  incompleteness  of  her  beauty.  When  singing,  her  soul  takes 
the  effect  into  its-  own  hands,  like  a  clock  that  strikes  right 
whether  the  dial  is  wrong  or  no  ;  and  the  way  her  nostrils,  lips 
and  eyes  express  beauty  where  beauty  is  not,  is  worth  deaf  and 
dumb  people's  coming  to  learn  substitution  by.  When  she  stands 
near  the  footlights  on  the  stage,  however,  (and  we  wonder 
whether  she  knows  it,)  the  sharp  throwing  up  of  all  the  shadows 
of  her  features,  by  the  ascending  light,  neutralizes  even  this  ex 
pression,  and  she  is  then  seen  to  great  disadvantage.  These  mis- 
thrown  shadows  particularly  destroy  the  greatest  peculiarity  of 
her  face — her  upper  lip — the  nerve  that  follows  the  arched  line 
of  its  redness  playing  with  its  curve  like  a  serpent  on  the  rim  of  a 
9'* 


202  MANAGEMENT    OF    GESTURE. 

cup,  and  holding  the  expression  in  command  with  a  muscular 
pliableness  and  vivid  grace,  that  seems  as  if  it  would  force  the 
blood  through,  if  the  nicest  shade  of  its  will  of  expression  were 
not  obeyed.  Eyes  of  kindling  and  fearless  vitality,  teeth  unsur 
passable,  and  brilliant  complexion,  are  beauties  there  was  not  so 
much  need  of  educating,  but  they  fulfil  their  errands  to  perfection. 
We  have  not  mentioned  her  nose.  She  is  going  South,  where,  in 
the  taste  for  blood  horses,  she  will  find  an  appreciation  for  the 
inspired  and  passionate  play  of  her  thin  nostrils,  of  which  the 
North  is,  as  an  audience,  incapable. 

If  Mrs.  Bishop  did  not  sing  at  all,  and  tormented  no  specula 
tion  in  the  sex  of  whose  qualities  she  has  as  much  as  she  likes, 
she  would  still  be  an  object  of  very  great  curiosity  to  the  sex 
whose  costume  she  wears — she  dresses  so  faultlessly,  and,  with 
such  consummate  art,  communicates  her  motion  to  what  she 
wears.  The  test  is  most  trying,  of  course,  in  the  dress  with 
which  ladies  are  most  familiar;  and,  at  a  concert,  therefore, 
where  she  appears  only  in  the  evening  dress  of  a  lady,  she  is  seen 
to  the  best  advantage  for  comparison ;  though,  on  the  stage, 
whatever  her  costume — Tancredi  or  Linda,  male  or  female — she 
equally  presents  the  faultless  type  of  its  perfection.  It  is  a  rarer 
thing  than  it  would  seem  at  first  naming,  to  see  how  a  high-bred, 
thoroughly  educated,  unerringly  comme  il  faut  lady,  dresses  and 
bears  herself  in  full  dress,  and,  of  this  sort  of  courtly  phenomenon, 
Mrs.  Bishop  is  as  fine  a  specimen  as  we  ever  saw  in  Europe. 
Her  management  of  Tier  hands  and  arms,  her  reception  of  ap 
plause,  her  look  of  inquiry  as  to  the  will  of  an  audience  in  an 
encore,  are  all  parts  of  the  same  picture  of  accomplished  high 
breeding,  and  we  presume  we  are  not  wrong  in  mentioning  this 
among  her  attractions  as  a  public  performer. 


LACK    OF    FEELING.  203 


The  critics  concur  that  we  have  never  had,  in  this  country,  a 
more  perfect  singer  than  Mrs.  Bishop,  as  to  taste  and  execution. 
She  has  a  clear,  high,  manageable  voice,  and  she  has  taken  it 
thankfully  from  nature  and  made  the  most  of  it.  It  does  not 
seem  to  matter  much  to  her  what  language  she  is  to  sing  in,  or 
what  style  of  song,  or  what  music.  Her  pronunciation  and  execu 
tion  are  alike  admirable  in  all.  At  her  concert,  the  other  night, 
she  did  what  we  should  have  predicted  was  impossible  for  her — 
full  musical  justice  to  two  of  Moore's  most  exquisite  melodies. 
But,  though  we  say  "full  justice/'  we  must  add  that  Nature 
suffers  no  faculty  to  perfect  itself  to  independence  of  the  heart. 
Some  tones  must  be  breathed  on  by  a  tear  as  they  come  from  the 
bosom,  or  they  are  not  recognized  by  the  tears  of  the  listener. 
Mrs.  Bishop  could  not  be  the  artist  and  actress  that  she  exactly 
is,  without  putting  her  tenderness  of  nature  far,  very  far,  out  of 
reach  of  easy  call,  and,  though  her  music  is  thrilling,  startling 
and  enchanting,  touching  it  is  not. 


FIELDS, 

"  THE     AMERICAN    MOXON." 

As  it  was  a  common  romance,  in  olden  time,  for  a  fair  dame  to 
look  sweet  upon  her  lord  and  master's  eup-bearer,  we  cannot  be 
surprised  that  the  Muse  takes  the  whim  of  smiling  upon  the  Poet's 
publisher.  FIELDS  has  handed  up,  to  Apollo,  many  a  primrose- 
colored  cup  of  poetry.  His  ambrosial  curls,  of  course,  teem  with 
the  aroma.  MOXON,  the  English  publisher,  whose  speciality  is 
the  same,  and  after  whom  FIELDS  is  usually  called,  when  named 
in  the  talk  of  poets,  has,  alike,  had  the  favors  of  "  The  Nine," 
and  is  also  publisher  and  poet.  Well,  we  do  not  know,  that — 
(under  the  Socialist  principles  that  govern  Helicon) — we  can  find 
any  reasonable  objection.  Take  him,  oh  Melpomene  ! 

But  though  every  body,  in  the  Slate-and-pencil-dom  which  is 
bounded  South  by  the  Lehigh  and  North  by  the  Penobscot, 
knows  Mr.  FIELDS,  yet  we  have  six  thousand  subscribers,  West 
of  the  Alleghanies  and  so  down  stream,  who  would  be  pleased  to 
know  his  stature  and  complexion.  Immaterial  as  it  may  be  to 
mere  enjoyment  of  the  shade,  it  is  natural  to  look  up  at  the  tree. 
We  gratify  this  undeniable  curiosity,  for  the  friendly  readers  of 
the  Home  Journal,  whenever  it  falls  in  our  way. 


PUBLISHER-POET.  205 


Mr.  FIELDS  is  a  young  man  of  twenty-five,  and  the  most 
absolute  specimen  of  rosy  and  juvenescent  health  that  would  be 
met  with  by  the  takers  of  the  census.  His  glowing  cheek  and 
•white  teeth,  full  frame  and  curling  beard,  clear  eyes  and  ready 
smile,  are,  to  tell  the  truth,  most  un-symptomatic  of  the  poet — • 
not  even  very  common  in  publishers.  He  is  a  leading  man  in 
"  Young  Boston" — the  crank  of  mercantile  and  moral  committees 
— the  ambassador  of  popular  thanks  and  honors  to  public  men — 
the  getter-up  of  such  spontaneous  enthusiasms  as  fill  lecture- 
rooms  and  "  make  things  go" — in  short  the  man  to  apply  to,  if 
you  want  to  know  whether  Boston  can  be  moved,  and  how,  and 
where.  Mr.  Fields  finds  the  orators  and  poets  for  public 
occasions,  or,  in  case  of  failure,  delivers,  himself,  quite  as  good  a 
performance,  of  either  kind,  as  was  first  expected.  He  is  thus, 
it  will  be  seen,  tricipitous  in  his  functions — publisher,  poet,  and 
— —  we  wish  there  were  a  name  for  the  third  and  last  described 
character  in  a  community.  It  is  a  kind  of  detail  Governor— 
"  sleeping  partner"  of  the  Executive — confidential  Secretary  of 
the  city's  wishes — the  person  every  one  goes  to,  who  seeks  public 
favor — an  un-nominated  functionary,  in  short,  such  as  is  to  be 
found  in  every  great  metropolis,  using  as  much  influence  as  the 
mayor  and  two  aldermen,  yet  without  any  honorary  designation. 

Mr.  FIELDS'S  poems  are  scholar-like  in  their  structure,  musical, 
genial-toned  in  feeling,  effortless,  and  pure-thoughted.  He  has  a 
playful  and  delicate  fancy,  which  he  uses  skilfully  in  his  poems 
of  sentiment,  and  a  strongly  perceptive  observation,  which  he 
exercises  finely  in  his  hits  at  the  times  and  didactic  poetry.  The 
Wordsworthian  poem  called  "  The  Ballad  of  the  Tempest"  has  so 
gone  the  rounds  of  the  papers  as  to  be  familiar  to  every  reader, 
or  we  should  insert  it  here.  But  we  close  our  incomplete 


206  TRIBUTE    TO    ROGERS. 


mention  of  his  book,  by  copying  a  bit  of  nice  imagination  with 
which,  (in  his  late  tour  in  Europe),  he  presented  some  pressed 
sea-mosses  to  the  Poet  KOGERS  : — 

"  To  him  who  sang  of  Venice,  and  revealed 
How  Wealth  and  Glory  clustered  in  her  streets, 
And  poised  her  marble  domes  with  wondrous  skill, 
We  send  these  tributes,  plundered  from  the  sea. 
These  many-colored,  variegated  forms 
Sail  to  our  rougher  shores,  and  rise  and  fall 
To  the  deep  music  of  the  Atlantic  wave. 
Such  spoils  we  capture  where  the  rain-bows  drop 
Melting  in  ocean.     Here  are  broideries  strange, 
Wrought  by  the  sea-nymphs  from  their  golden  hair, 
And  wove  by  moonlight.     Gently  turn  the  leaf. 
From  narrow  cells,  scooped  in  the  rocks,  we  take 
These  fairy  textures,  lightly  moored  at  morn. 
Down  sunny  slopes,  outstretching  to  the  deep, 
We  roam  at  noon,  and  gather  shapes  like  these. 
Note  now  the  painted  webs  from  verdurous  isles 
Festooned  and  spangled  in  sea-caves,  and  say 
What  hues  of  land  can  rival  tints  like  those, 
Torn  from  the  scarfs  and  gonfalons  of  kings 
Wlio  dwell  beneath  the  waters. 

"  Such  our  Gift, 

Culled  from  a  margin  of  the  Western  World, 
And  offered  unto  Genius  in  the  old." 

We  should  add,  by  the  way,  that  Mr.  FIELDS'S  poems  are 
published  by  TICKNOR  and  Co.,  of  Boston,  the  publishing  house 
in  which  he  is  a  partner. 


GRACE  GREENWOOD, 

Miss  SARAH  J.  CLARKE,  the  authoress  of  the  "  Greenwood 
Leaves" — ("  Grace  Greenwood"  by  nom  de  plume) — is  a  young 
lady,  of  perhaps  eighteen,  born,  with  the  Ohio,  at  Pittsburgh,  and 
destined,  like  this  her  foster-river,  to  have  had  a  sufficiently  dis 
tinct  and  important  existence  of  her  own,  before  merging  her 
name  in  her  destined  Mississippi.  In  personal  appearance,  she 
is  more  like  an  Andalusian  than  a  child  of  the  Alleghanies — her 
large  Spanish  eyes,  oval  outline  of  face  and  clear  brunette  com 
plexion,  looking  to  be  of  a  nativity  warmer  and  nearer  the  equator 
than  the  cold  Blue  Ridge — and,  with  her  tall  "person,  and  fond 
ness  for  horses  and  open  air  exercise,  there  seems  a  persistence 
of  Nature  in  making  her  as  much  a  personal,  as  she  is  a 
mental,  exception  to  the  latitude  she  lives  in.  Miss  Clarke 
will  pardon  this  flesh  and  blood  introduction  to  our  readers, 
when  she  remembers  that  there  is  a  stage  of  progress,  in 
the  path  to  fame,  where  the  awarding  public  -insist  upon 
knowing  how  looks  the  one  on  whom  they  are  bestowing 
so  much ;  and  the  freedom  we  have  taken  is  our  unavoidable 


208  GRACE    GREENWOOD. 


recognition  of    her   now   owing  that   debt   to  the   curiosity  of 
admiration. 

Of  two  classes  who  may  be  equally  gifted  with  the  almost 
supernatural  perceptions  of  genius,  one  may  be  of  reluctant  in 
vention,  and  fonder  of  running  faithful  parallels  to  their  own  ex 
perience  when  writing,  while  the  other  may  prefer  the  mere 
structures  of  the  imagination,  and  trust  to  perceptive  instinct  to 
keep  them  true  to  nature.  These  are  two  scales,  however,  of 
which  a  chance-weight  of  experience  may  change  the  prepon 
derance  ;  and,  while  a  life  too  tranquil  may  have  first  driven  a 
writer  to  take  refuge  in  fancy,  a  thickening  of  pains  and  pleasures, 
in  the  path  of  real  life,  may  reverse  the  attraction  and  bring  the 
mind  to  describe  joy  and  suffering  of  its  own.  Altogether  from 
fancy,  as  "  Greenwood  Leaves"  seen  to  be  written,  we  should  not 
be  surprised  if  the  advance  beyond  the  threshold  of  womanhood 
should  altogether  change  the  character  of  the  writer's  mind,  and 
form,  for  her,  an  entirely  new  fame,  in  a  new  field  of  composi 
tion. 

We  have  not  time — nor  is  it  the  fashion — to  criticise  analyti 
cally.  To  those  who'  know  what  love  and  life  are,  this  book, 
which  is  a  guess  at  what  they  are,  is  speculatively  interesting,  and, 
by  the  perception  of  true  genius  which  we  alluded  to  above,  its 
descriptions  keep  so  near  to  nature  that  they  are  always  captivat 
ing.  More  fearless  than  most  women,  in  the  handling  of  her 
topics,  the  fair  authoress  certainly  is  ;  but  (though  her  language 
is  vigorous  enough,  we  should  fear,  to  subject  her  "  to  militia 
duty,")  it  strikes  us  as  a  peculiarity  which  she  had  better  culti 
vate  than  abate,  and  one  upon  which  she  can  form  a  style  well 
suited  to  the  stronger  productions  she  will  yet  give  us. 

Miss  Clarke  is  about  to  appear  as  a  poetess,  by  a  volume  now 


VIGOROUS    VEIN.  209 


in  press,  and  it  is  in  verse,  we  think,  that  her  strong  and  impul 
sive  genius  shows  to  most  advantage.  Several  of  her  poems, 
which  have  appeared  in  the  Home  Journal,  are  exceedingly  fine, 
our  readers  need  not  be  told. 


f 

* 


FEMIMORE  COOPER, 

MR.  COOPER  has  been  in  town  for  a  week  or  two  past,  looking, 
as  the  Scripture  phrases  it,  "  like  a  tiel  tree  or  an  oak,  whose 
strength  is  in  them  though  they  cast  their  leaves."  By  the  pre 
sent  promise  of  his  robust  frame,  and  steady  eye,  he  will  give  us 
new  leaves  (of  new  books)  for  many  a  Spring  yet  to  come.  In  a 
conversation  with  the  eminent  novelist  while  here,  we  reverted  to 
the  time  when  we  first  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him— in  Paris, 
in  1832 — and,  among  other  remembrances  of  the  period,  he  men 
tioned  a  circumstance,  illustrative  of  the  long-ago  gestation  of  the 
ambition  of  Louis  Napoleon,  which  we  asked  leave  to  record,  as  a 
chiffon  of  history.  Mr.  Cooper's  house,  we  should  mention,  was, 
at  that  time,  the  "  hospice  de  St.  Bernard"  of  the  Polish  refugees, 
and,  as  the  nucleus  of  republican  sympathies  in  the  great  capital, 
his  intimacy  with  Lafayette,  personal  reasons  aside,  was  neces 
sarily  very  close  and  confidential.  At  his  daily  breakfast  table, 
open  to  all  friends  and  comers-in,  (and  supplied,  we  remember, 
for  hour  after  hour  of  every  day  with  hot  buckwheat  cakes,  which 
were  probably  eaten  nowhere  else  on  that  side  the  water,)  many 
a  distinguished  but  impoverished  Polish  refugee  ate  his  only  meal 
for  the  twenty-four  hours,  and,  to  the  same  hospitable  house, 


COOPER'S    HOSPITALITY.  211 


came  all  who  were  interested  in  the  great  principle  of  that  struggle, 
distinguished  men  of  most  nations  among  them.  But,  to  the 
story  : — 

I  was  calling  upon  Lafayette,  one  day,  (said  Mr.  Cooper)  and 
was  let  in  by  his  confidential  servant,  who,  it  struck  me,  showed 
signs  of  having  something  to  conceal.  He  said  his  master  was  at 
home,  and,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  made  way  for  me  to  go 
on  as  usual  to  his  private  room — but  I  saw  that  there  was  some 
embarrassment.  I  walked  in,  and  found  the  General  alone.  He 
received  me  with  the  same  cordiality  as  ever,  but  inquired  with 
some  eagerness  who  let  me  in,  and  whether  I  met  an  old  acquaint 
ance  going  out.  I  told  him  that  his  old  servant  had  admitted 
me,  and  that  there  was  certainly  something  peculiar  in  the  man's 
manner ;  but  as  I  had  seen  no  one  else,  I  knew  nothing  more. 
"  Ah,"  said  the  General,  "  that  fellow  put  him  in  the  side-room. 
Sit  down,  and  I  will  tell  you.  Prince  Louis  Napoleon  Bonaparte 
was  here  two  miuutes  ago  !"  I  expressed  surprise,  of  course,  for 
this  was  in  '33,  when  it  was  death  for  a  Bonaparte  to  enter 
France.  "  Yes,"  continued  the  General,  "  and  he  came  with  a 
proposition.  He  wishes  to  marry  my  grand-daughter  Clementine, 
unite  the  Republicanisms  and  Imperialists,  make  himself  Emperor, 
and  my  grand-daughter  Imperatrice  !"  And,  if  it  be  not  an  in 
discreet  question,  I  said,  what  was  your  answer,  my  dear  Gene 
ral  ?  "  I  told  him,"  said  Lafayette,  "  that  my  family  had  the 
American  notion  on  that  subject,  and  chose  husbands  for  them 
selves — that  there  was  the  young  lady — he  might  go  and  court 
her,  and,  if  she  liked  him,  I  had  no  objection." 

Mr.  Cooper  did  not  tell  us  (for  of  course  he  did  not  know) 
how  the  Prince  plied  his  wooing,  nor  why  he  failed.  The  fair 
Clementine,  who,  thus,  possibly,  lost  her  chance  of  being  an  Em 


212  LOUIS   NAPOLEON. 


press,  married  Monsieur  de  Beaumont,  and  now  represents  her 
rejected  admirer,  as  the  French  ambassadress  at  the  court  of 
Austria.  Shortly  after  this  visit  to  Lafayette,  Mr.  Cooper  was 
in  London,  and  mentioned  to  the  Princess  Charlotte,  (the  widow 
of  the  elder  brother  of  the  present  President,)  this  venture  of 
Prince  Louis  into  the  den  of  the  Orleanists.  "  He  is  mad  !"  was 
the  only  reply.  But  the  finger-post  of  "  that  way  madness  lies," 
does  not  always  point  truly.  At  any  rate,  there  is  a  certain 
"  method  in  his  madness,"  for  the  same  match  between  Impe 
rialism  and  Republicanism  has  been  the  Prince's  pursuit  ever 
since,  and  the  chances  are  that  he  will  finally  bring  it  about — 
Clementine's  and  other  intermediate  unbelieviDgs,  notwith 
standing. 


SCHROEDER  AND  FAY, 

THE  appointment  of  Mr.  SCHROEDER  as  Charge  tf  Affaires  to 
S  veden,  gives  us  that  "  threshold  of  commendation,"  by  which 
we  have  long  wished  to  enter  upon  the  subject  of  FITNESS  IN 
DIPLOMATIC  APPOINTMENTS.  Before  generalizing  upon  the 
matter,  let  us  say  more  definitely,  to  those  of  our  readers  who 
have  not  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet  Mr.  Schroeder,  that  a 
better  model  for  an  incumbent  of  that  particular  office  could  be 
picked  from  no  diplomatic  school,  even  in  Europe.  With 
singular  elegance  of  person  and  a  temperament  naturally  courtly 
and  gracious,  Mr.  Schroeder  is,  in  the  best  sense  of  the  phrase, 
"an  accomplished  man."  He  has  had  such  an  education  as  few 
young  men  get  in  this  country  ;  and,  to  the  solid  acquirements 
necessary  in  his  profession  as  an  engineer,  are  added  a  practical 
acquaintance  with  European  languages — acquisitions,  such  as  are 
rarely  made  by  gentlemen  of  leisure,  in  the  arts  and  music — fine 
scholarship — and  habitual  familiarity  with  the  forms  of  refined 
society.  A  lovely  wife,  who  has  been  the  charm  of  the  brilliant 
circle  of  which  her  mother's  house  is  the  centre  at  "Washington, 
will  not  be  a  trifling  accessory  to  what  the  new  Charge  takes 
with  him  to  grace  his  office  at  the  Court  of  Sweden.  We  may 


214  DIPLOMATIC    FITNESS. 


well  wish  our  country  were  always,  and  at  every  Court,  to  be  as 
favorably  represented. 

The  appointment,  alone,  of  Minister  to  England,  might  be 
kept,  without  objection,  to  serve  its  present  purpose — a  step  of 
honor  by  which  a  Government  Secretary  could  leave  the  Cabinet 
with  dignity,  or  a  shelf  whereon  a  politician  could  be  set  aside  as 
an  honorary  bust,  when  the  plastic  clay  of  his  party  influence 
stiffens  beyond  farther  moulding.  England  knows  our  country 
well  enough  to  make  allowance  for  any  manners  in  any  man 
whom  it  was  necessary  for  the  American  President  thus  to  reward 
or  get  rid  of.  The  language  being  the  same,  too,  the  talent 
which  had  brought  the  new  Minister  to  his  eminent  position  at 
home,  would  be  likely  to  come  out  in  conversation  ;  and  force  of 
character  and  originality  of  mind  would  be  appreciated  by 
English  statesmen,  even  through  the  nasal  accent,  exaggerated 
phraseology,  and  newly-adopted  manners,  which  would  very 
likely  be  their  accompaniments,  in  a  purely  political  appointee. 

The  mission  to  France  is  also,  perhaps,  too  important  a  gift  to 
be  taken  away  from  party  bestowal,  and  both  this  and  the  mission 
to  England,  from  our  important  relations  with  these  two  countries, 
require  men  of  sound  judgment  and  some  breadth  of  opinion  and 
experience — though,  to  have  our  country  represented  at  Paris  by 
a  man  who  does  not  fluently  speak  French,  let  his  claims  other 
wise  be  what  they  may,  is  a  discreditable  possibility  which  we 
trust  to  Heaven  our  public  sense  of  dignity  will  outgrow. 

Allowing  overruling  reasons  to  make  exceptions  of  these  twa 
Missions,  however,  the  others,  it  seems  to  us,  (and  the  Secretary 
ships  of  all,)  should  be  given  to  those  only  who  have  the  kind  of 
education  to  enable  them  to  perform  their  duties,  properly  and 
gracefully.  A  knowledge  of  French,  which  is  the  diplomatic 


TYPES    OF    COUNTRIES.  215 


language  all  over  the  world,  ought,  in  common  decency,  to  be  the 
sine  qua  non  of  eligibility.  Good  manners,  presentable  family, 
and  such  character  as  would  make  a  man  a  desirable  acquaintance 
in  his  own  country,  should  also  be  indispensable ;  and,  to  make 
the  offices  worth  accepting  by  such  men,  they  should  be  perma 
nent,  or  changeable  only  by  promotions  granted  on  the  principles 
of  professed  diplomacy. 

For  all  the  emergencies  of  diplomatic  transactions,  elsewhere 
than  in  England  and  France,  an  easily  acquired  knowledge  of 
International  Law  would  abundantly  suffice — or,  there  is  experi 
enced  counsel  and  legal  advice  to  be  had,  for  the  seeking  out,  in 
any  capital  where  there  is  a  Court.  But  official  duty  is  the  least 
part  of  that  for  which  a  diplomatist  is  called  upon.  However  few 
may  see,  or  have  intercourse  with  him,  his  qualities  are  known, 
throughout  tbo  country  to  which  he  is  sent,  and  he  stands  for  a 
type — (and  a  favorable  type,  too) — of  his  own  country's  civiliza 
tion,  intelligence  and  manners.  America,  particularly,  which  is 
so  far  away,  is  judged  of  by  its  diplomatic  representatives  ;  and, 
since  the  gaze  of  every  country  in  the  world  is  directed  especially 
toward  America  by  the  pointing  finger  of  emigration,  the 
authenticated  specimen  which  officially  represents  it,  is  looked 
upon  with  more  critical  examination,  even  than  the  diplomatists 
of  other  countries,  and  the  inferences  of  such  scrutiny  are,  by  no 
means,  of  trifling  importance.  Will  the  reader  recal  to  mind 
some  of  the  late  applicants  for  Foreign  Missions,  and  imagine 
them  figuring  in  European  capitals  as  fair  specimens  of  our 
country's  best  education  and  manners  ! 

There  are  .two  languages  necessary  to  a  Foreign  Minister  or 
Charge,  without  which  he  cannot  discharge  the  duties  of  his 
office.  His  principal  duty,  of  course,  is  to  keep  his  own 


216  AWKWARD    HONORS 


Government  better  advised,  than  it  can  be  by  foreign  newspapers, 
of  the  true  state  of  the  country  he  is  sent  to.  The  undercurrent 
of  opinions,  as  expressed  in  the  free  and  friendly  conversations  of 
society,  is  what  he  is  officially  bound  to  be  acquainted  with,  and 
for  this,  we  say,  he  requires  two  languages— the  French  language 
in  the  first  place,  and,  in  the  second  place,  the  language  of 
polished  manners,  without  which  no  one  will  exchange  with  him 
more  than  the  most  formal  courtesies.  But,  besides  this  inca 
pacity  for  official  duty,  there  are  awkwardnesses  consequent  upon 
an  ignorance  of  the  French  language,  which  are  a  shame  to  the 
country  that  has  sent  out  such  an  ignoramus.  As  compliments 
of  course  to  any  new  American  Minister,  he  is  invited  to  a 
succession  of  dinners,  given  hirn  by  the  Ambassadors  of  the 
different  Powers  of  Europe.  There  is  no  language  but  French 
spoken  at  table,  and  there  sits  the  guest  of  honor,  blundering 
ludicrously  if  he  tries  to  make  a  remark,  misunderstanding 
ludicrously  all  that  is  said  to  him,  or  looking  ludicrously  like  an 
idiot  if  he  is  entirely  silent !  It  is  a  matter  of  form  "that  he  is 
invited  to  every  large  party,  and  he  goes  always  to  Court 
receptions — standing  about,  every  where,  without  a  word  to  say, 
or  talking  so  awkwardly  that  every  one  avoids  him,  and  it  takes 
but  a  short  time  for  such  a  man  to  become  the  laughing-stock  of 
a  foreign  capital — as  many  an  American  Minister  has  been,  under 
just  these  circumstances. 

We  wish  our  "  appointing  powers"  could  know  how  this 
government  is  graced  and  honored  in  Prussia,  by  the  courtly 
knowledge,  high  principled  life,  and  winning  manners  of  the 
Secretary  of  its  Legation,  and  sometime  Charge,  Theodore  Fay. 
He  and  his  admirable  wife  and  sweet  child,  after  twelve  years' 
residence  in  Berlin,  are  the  beloved  of  that  Court  and  capital,—  - 


SCHROEDER    AND    FAY.  217 

no  diplomatic  family  better  known  or  more  respected.  In  the 
month  which  we  passed  there,  when  last  abroad,  we  became  con 
vinced,  that  a  character  which  would  stand  the  test  of  lono- 

cS 

residence,  superior  personal  qualities,  and  intellectual  habits  and 
tastes,  were  of  far  more  importance  than  is  generally  supposed,  in 
the  diplomatic  representation  of  a  country.  The  respect  with 
which  Fay  was  met  and  treated,  in  all  our  many  walks  about 
Berlin,  the  evident  partiality  and  affection  felt  for  him  by  all 
classes,  the  deference  shown  him  in  society,  and  the  consideration 
with  which  (as  I  learned  from  various  competent  authority)  he 
was  invariably  treated  at  Court,  could  not  but  be  advantageous  to 
the  estimate  of  America  in  that  country,  while,  at  the  same  time, 
such  tribute  was  most  creditable  to  himself.  With  such  a 
Secretary,  indeed,  the  injurious  impression  of  even  an  unfavorable 
specimen  of  a  Minister,  would  be  partly  neutralized. 

We  think  there  is  already  a  leaning  toward  making  our 
diplomacy,  as  it  is  in  other  nations,  a  regular  profession.  We 
are  delighted  with  the  appointment  of  Mr.  Schroeder  as  a  step 
towards  it — for,  as  in  the  case  of  Theodore  Fay,  the  admirable 
qualification  for  the  office  will  create  such  reasonableness,  in  his 
retaining  it,  that  an  Administration  would  not  remove  him  except 
for  promotion,  and  this  makes  it,  at  once,  into  a  profession  which 
a  prudent  and  high-minded  gentleman  might  profitably  adopt. 
10 


THE  NEW  PRIMA-DONNA,  STEFFANONL 

WITH  powers  of  attention  overdone  with  extra  labor,  (prepar 
ing  a  book  for  the  press,  for  which  we  venture  deferentially  to 
bespeak  the  favor  of  our  readers,  as  well  as  indulgence  for  less  of 
labor  elsewhere,)  we  went  to  the  opening  performance  of  the 
Opera  company  from  Havana.  With  so  little  likelihood  to  be 
pleased,  seldom  has  one  sat  down  to  a  play.  Private  advice  that 
all  the  singers  were  suffering  from  the  epidemic  influenza,  did  not 
improve  expectation.  Patience  protesting  against  the  great  de 
lay  in  raising  the  curtain — ears  objecting  to  the  too  noisy  per 
formance  of  the  delicious  overture — tenor  annoying  us  with  an 
ill-joined  piecing  out  of  his  voice  with  a  falsetto — were  other 
clouds  upon  the  horizon  of  our  admiration,  threatening  to  shut 
from  us  the  brightness  of  the  new-sprung  star.  Enter  the 
Druidical  priestess,  at  last — unexcited  with  any  expectation  of 
applause,  apparently — very  cold  and  very  indifferent — decidedly 
a  handsome  woman  and  probably  trusting  carelessly  to  that — 
better  musical  execution  than  we  expected,  but  voice  husky  in 
the  lower  notes — throughout  the  first  scene  or  two,  in  fact,  dis 
mally  justifying  unfavorable  anticipations.  We  employed  the 
time  in  analyzing  the  renowned  loveliness  of  the  fair  Steffanoni. 


STEFFANONI. 


She  is  tall  and  large.  Her  face  is  one  of  those  that  would  be 
frightful  in  daguerreotype,  though  beautiful  in  nature  ;  not  regu 
lar,  but  with  that  look  of  folded-up  expression,  as  if  capable  of 
great  beauty  "if  need  were."  Her  upper  lip  is  unfinished  on 
the  inside,  and,  during  impassive  singing,  does  not  play  well  upon 
the  teeth— eyes  small,  as  is  apt  to  be  true  of  impassioned  women, 
and  nose  slightly  turned-up,  idem.  Her  walk  was  most  majestic 
and  unpremeditatedly  graceful.  Her  arms  and  hands  were  ad 
mirably  full,  tapering,  round  and  white,  and  the  dimples  on  her 
fingers  were  of  infantine  depth  and  distribution.  Arms  managed 
with  such  unconscious  grace  and  effect,  we  made  up  our  mind 
from  the  first,  we  had  seldom  if  ever  before  seen. 

As  the  Druidess  went  on,  and  sang  her  invocation  to  the  moon, 
it  became  gradually  evident,  we  thought,  that  justice  had  not 
been  done,  by  fore-running  Fame,  to  the  finish  and  style  of  her 
musical  conception  and  education.  Without  effort,  and  with  a 
carelessness  of  effect  that  began  to  act  like  a  charm  upon  us,  she 
reached  the  full  utterance  and  meaning  of  each  passage,  and  her 
calm  but  thoughtful  acting  drew  attention  more  and  more  from 
herself,  and  involved  us  in  the  interest  of  the  play.  It  was  not 
till  the  last  scene  of  the  first  act,  however,  that  she  developed  her 
powers  with  any  startling  effect.  When  the  youthful  priestess 
confessed  to  her  superior  that  her  vows  had  yielded  to  love,  and 
the  coming  in  of  the  Proconsul  betrayed  to  Norma  that  it  was  he 
—the  faithless  father  of  her  own  children — with  whom  the  erring 
one  was  preparing  to  fly,  then  awoke,  suddenly,  the  indolent 
genius  of  which  we  had  seen  but  the  look  of  possibility  in  her  face, 
and  a  great  actress  was  before  us.  The  voice  threw  off  its  hoarse 
ness,  the  countenance  its  concealments,  the  form  its  languor. 
Those  beautiful  arms,  bare  from  the  shoulder,  so  gestured  that 


220  SNUBBING   THE    PUBLIC. 

the  most  trifling  motion  had  its  degree  of  language.  Finer  atti 
tudes  of  reproach  and  lofty  fury,  of  passionate  pleading  and 
abandonment  to  overwhelming  denunciation,  we  think  a  painter 
could  scarce  invent.  Her  great  beauty,  and  the  singular  fitness 
of  her  looks  to  the  character,  completed  the  illusion,  and  it  was 
Norma,  that,  with  moved  heart,  we  saw  and  pitied,  not  Steffa- 
noni.  At  the  dropping  of  the  curtain  upon  the  unexpected  and 
wonderful  acting  of  this  scene,  the  applause  of  the  electrified 
audience  was  tumultuous. 

How  this  delightful  musical  advent  will  wear,  with  the  trials  in 
other  characters,  we  cannot  say.  Norma  kept  up  her  power 
throughout  the  remaining  scenes  of  the  Opera,  and  went  off  with 
a  triumph  to  which  there  was  no  drawback  or  dissent.  The  fas 
cinating  reserve  of  power  which  there  seems  to  be,  even  when 
most  excited,  promises  well  for  other  efforts,  and  we  can  only 
wonder,  Steffanoni  being  what  she  shows  herself  in  this  trying 
character,  that  the  trumpet  of  Fame  had  not  more  noised  her 

coming  and  value. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

There  is  a  French  proverb  which  is  worthy  to  be  the  "  posy  of 
a  ring" — "  on  ne  pent  trop  sViumilier  devant  Dieu,  ni  trop  braver 
les  hommes" — and,  whatever  may  be  the  religious  humility  of 
Signor  Marti  and  the  Havanese  company,  they  seem  to  have 
made  the  latter  expediency,  that  of  snubbing  the  public,  their 
rule  of  professional  conduct.  And  it  takes.  The  anecdotes  that 
are  afloat,  of  Steffanoni's  empress-like  caprices  and  Vesuvian  de 
monstrations  of  will — the  questions  as  to  the  Ariadne-necked 
Bosio's  tractability — the  certainty  of  Marini's  being,  with  all  his 
vim  and  vehemence,  as  journalier  as  the  loveliest  of  women — the 
April-like  caprices  of  the  delicate  he-and-she  organ  of  Salvi — are 


EFFECT    OF    APPLAUSE.  221 


all,  we  repeat,  intensifications  of  the  public  interest  in  this  Opera 
company,  and  we  would  give  something  to  hear  of  one  indignant 
component  of  the  Public  who  has  stayed  away  from  Niblo's  in 
consequence.  No,  sir !  No,  Madam !  Obsequiousness  is  too 
much  used  in  business  in  this  country,  (politeness  and  "  drum 
ming"  being  the  up-town  and  down-town  terms  for  the  same 
commodity,)  to  be  politic  or  captivating  ;  and  we  like  those  best 
who  have  most  the  air  of  being  able  to  do  without  us — many  an 
old-fashioned  axiom  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding.  See  the 
crowded  houses,  on  the  nights  after  our  sovereign  public  has  been 
put  off,  at  three  hours'  warning,  and  reflect  upon  the  things  "  put 
up  with,"  such  as  the  bouquets  that  suffer  from  "  hope  deferred," 
countermanded  beaux,  and  general  dislocation  of  the  week's  en 
gagements  ! 

-  We  take  back  a  little  of  the  indifference  we  expressed  last 
week,  as  to  Steffanoni's  performance  in  "  La  Favorita,"  for  we 
have  since  sat  it  out,  and,  though  the  first  third  of  it  is  all  spurts 
and  attitudinizing,  it  mellows  as  it  gets  on.  We  had  chanced 
never  before  to  see  the  Opera  except  with  the  pussy-cat  persona 
tion  of  Bertucca,  and  wooden-puppet  playing  of  Forti,  and  it  was 
hard  to  displace  so  unfortunate  an  impression.  The  Havanese 
Cleopatra,  however,  took  up  the  composer's  inspiration,  at  the 
point  where  the  unhappy  mistress  of  the  King  first  feels  true  love 
for  the  husband  to  whom  she  has  been  given  as  a  riddance,  and, 
thence  onward,  through  scorn  and  abandonment  to  forgiveness 
and  death,  she  gave  us  the  perfection  of  lyric  tragedy,  in  an 
overwhelming  probability  and  truthfulness.  She  is  a  great  wo 
man,  this  Steffanoni !  We  were  struck,  by  the  way,  with  the  ex 
quisite  letting-out  of  fold  after  fold  of  reserve,  produced  by  the 

persevering  acclamation  of  the  audience  at  the  close  of  the  long 


222  STAGE    SOVEREIGNTY. 


solo,  we  think,  in  the  second  act.  Thunder  No.  1— she  slightly 
and  gravely  curtesied  with  a  simple  look  of  "  I  thank  you.'1'1 
Thunder  No.  2— she  slightly  spread  her  hands,  and  curtesied  a 
little  more  proclivitously,  with  a  look  of  "lam  glad  you  like  it, 
but  it  would  have  been  just  as  good  if  you  hadn't."  Thunder 
No.  3— her  features  indolently  relaxed,  and  she  spread  those 
well-moulded  and  beautiful  arms  a  little  farther,  with  a  conde 
scending  look  of  "  You  are  my  natural  subjects,  and  I  kindly  re 
ceive  your  homage."  Thunder  and  no  end  to  it— and  at  last 
there  came  the  indolent  and  reluctant  smile— the  curtsy  was 
lowered  to  the  point  of  overcome-itude— the  magnificent  arms 
spread  and  stood  motionless  at  one  graceful  pose  for  a  moment, 
and  then— applause  continuing— out  turned,  (like  the  leaves  of  a 
water-lily,  blooming  in  a  second,  to  the  sun  breaking  through  a 
cloud)  those  dimpled  and  tapering  fingers,  with  the  soft  and  white 
palm  of  her  telegraphic  hand,  held  for  the  first  time,  freely  and 
affectionately  open  to  the  public.  With  an  eighth  of  an  inch  of 
gesture,  we  never  dreamed  before  that  so  much  could  be  added 
to  what  had  been  already  expressed,  but  it  said,  "  New  York 
really  begins  to  know  me,  at  last,  and  IUI  sing  as  I  know  how— 
so,  idolize  away  /»  And  so  we  will,  you  superb  and  imperial 
creature ! 


FREDERIKA  BREMER, 

Miss  BREMER  left  New  York,  in  the  glow  of  a  second 
impression  which  had  entirely  superseded  the  first.  By  the 
dangerous  experiment  of  displacing  a  glowing  ideal  by  an 
unprepossessing  reality — substituting  the  flesh  and  blood  for  the 
imaginary  image — she  seemed  at  first  to  be  a  sufferer.  The 
slowness  with  which  she  spoke,  and  the  pertinacity  with  which 
she  insisted  on  understanding  the  most  trifling  remark  made  to 
her,  a  little  dashed  the  enthusiasm  of  those  who  newly  made  her 
acquaintance.  Farther  intercourse,  however,  brought  out  a 
quaint  and  quiet  self-possession,  a  shrewd  vein  of  playfulness,  a 
quick  observation,  and  a  truly  charming  simplicity,  which  re-won 
all  the  admiration  she  had  lost,  and  added,  we  fancy,  even  to  the 
ideal  of  expectation.  Those  who  have  seen  her  most  intimately 
pronounce  her  to  be  all  goodness,  truth  and  nature,  and  she  is, 
(as  far  as  our  own  observation  goes,)  a  walking  lesson  of  manners 
of  another  school,  of  which  our  own  may  well  profit  in  the  study. 


LIEUT,  WISE, 

AUTHOR    OF    "  LOS    GRINGOS.'' 

CONVERSATIONAL  literature,  or  books  written  as  agreeable 
people  talk,  is  the  present  fashion  with  authors  and  passion  with 
readers.  Herman  Melville,  with  his  cigar  and  his  Spanish  eyes, 
talks  Typee  and  Omoo,  just  as  you  find  the  flow  of  his  delightful 
mind  on  paper.  Those  who  have  only  read  his  books  know  the 
man — those  who  have  only  seen  the  man  have  a  fair  idea  of  his 
books.  Thackeray's  novels  are  stenographed  from  his  every-day 
rattle  with  his  intimates.  "  Two  Years  before  the  Mast"  is  like 
a  quiet,  tete-a-tete  yarn.  "  Kaloolah"  carries  you  away  with  its 
un-literary  reality.  In  writing  a  book,  now-a-days,  the  less  you 
"  smell  of  the  shop"  the  better  it  sells. 

This  is  an  exponent  of  the  age.  It  is  the  "  spirit  of  the  time" 
to  get  rid  of  hindrances  and  "  nonsense."  In  diplomacy,  straight 
forwardness  has  stripped  the  artichoke  of  etiquette  down  to  a 
palatable  pith.  In  war,  men  go  to  battle  with  the  least  cumbrous 
dress  instead  of  the  heaviest  armor.  In  legislatures,  he  who  is 
least  of  a  rhetorician  and  comes  quickest  to  the  point,  has  the 
most  influence.  In  society,  late  balls  and  formal  suppers  are 
yielding  to  early  "  receptions"  and  light  entertainment.  Tn 


CHANGE    IN    AUTHORSHIP.  225 


dress,  ceremony  has  quite  given  way  to  comfort  and  convenience. 
And  last,  (though  most  important,  and  to  be  alluded  to  with 
proper  respect ,)  "  Puseyism"  is  making  an  alarmed  rally  to  pro 
tect,  from  this  spirit  of  nudification,  the  imposing  ceremonials  of 
religion. 

Hearts  whose  fibres  spread  through  the  world — minds  that 
could  make  whole  nations  grateful — have  been  the  privileged  pre 
rogatives,  till  now,  of  regular  poets  and  authors.  Genius,  as 
shown  in  conversation,  was  limited  to  a  sphere  of  listeners  and 
personal  acquaintance.  A  man  might  say  more  brilliant  things 
in  an  hour  than  an  author  could  put  into  the  reading  of  two 
hours,  yet  the  brilliant  talker  occupied  but  a  circle  of  friends,  and 
the  less  brilliant  author  occupied  the  universe.  This  unequal 
occupancy  of  space,  honor  and  control,  (by  authors  ruling  nations 
of  thought,  as  by  kings  ruling  nations  of  people,)  was  a  monopoly 
which,  in  this  free  day,  could  be  permitted  no  longer.  Superi 
ority  of  all  kinds  must  have  general  recognition.  Talkers  must 
share  the  sceptre  of  Pen  and  Ink.  The  world  must  be  delighted 
with  thought  in  its  undress,  and  be  content  to  yield  its  admiration 
as  willingly  to  unclassic  utterance  of  good  things  in  print,  as  to 
utterance  of  good  things  in  delightful  conversation.  The  court- 
entrance,  at  the  eye,  was  made  as  free  to  all  comers  and  costumes, 
as  the  unceremonious  gateway  of  the  ear. 

Under  this  new  franchise,  numbers  of  gifted  men,  hitherto  only 
known  to  their  friends,  are  extending  their  acquaintance  to  the 
whole  reading  world.  Any  body  who  can  talk  agreeably  to  six, 
has  only  to  put  his  thoughts  down  as  he  talks  them,  and  he  is  as 
agreeable  to  ten  thousand  as  he  was  to  six.  How  often  have  we 
met  persons  with  whose  voice-born  discourse  we  have  been  en 
chanted,  and  wondered  that,  in  a  world  of  daguerreotypes  and 
10* 


226  CONVERSATIONAL    NARRATIVE. 


clairvoyance,  such  gifts  could  be  imprisoned  by  the  limit  of  vocal 
utterance  ! 

The  book  whose  name  is  at  the  head  of  this  article  is  one  of 
the  most  agreeable  men  in  the  world — put  into  print.  "  Wise, 
of  the  Navy,"  (whom  we  name,  thus  familiarly,  because  by  this 
designation  he  will  be  delightedly  recalled  to  memory  by  the 
most  spirituelle  circles  in  different  cities  of  the  Union,)  has  had 
for  years  a  moveable  Dickens-dom,  bounded  by  every  four  walls 
that  contained  him  and  his  friends.  To  all  who  were  fortunate 
enough  to.  enjoy  his  society — to  a  few  at  a  time — he  has  given  the 
pleasure  that  Dickens  gives  to  millions,  using  carelessly,  profusely 
and  jollity,  two  or  three  of  the  rarest  qualities  of  genius.  For 
that  power  of  unexpected  parallelism,  which  brings  together,  sud 
denly  and  laughably,  the  most  distant  opposites  in  grotesque 
similitude — for  the  quick  analysis  of  a  thought  or  feeling  which 
supplies  material  for  wit — for  the  genial  and  irresistible  humor 
which  makes  what  people  familiarize  by  the  phrase,  "  the  mer 
riest  fellow  in  the  world" — we  hardly  know  the  equal  of  the 
author  of  Los  Gringos.  Mingled  as  these  qualities  are  with  the 
refinement  of  a  high-bred  gentleman,  and  singularly  varied  expe 
rience  of  the  world  as  an  officer  and  a  traveller,  they  form  a 
power  for  giving  pleasure  which  it  would  have  been  a  thousand 
pities  not  to  universalize  by  literature. 

To  the  tedium  of  ship-board  we  doubtless  owe  this  conversa 
tional  narrative  which,  for  lack  of  better  audiences,  flowed  out 
upon  paper.  The  author's  irrepressible  gayety  would  never  have 
confined  itself  to  pen  and  ink — on  shore.  '  He  has  used  the 
leisure  of  his  last  professional  cruize  in  the  Pacific,  to  scribble  - 
talk  over  his  adventures  in  out-of-the-way  places  ;  and  though  a 
cautious  friend,  who  had  the  overhauling  of  the  manuscript, 


LOS    GRINGOS.  227 


crossed  out  some  of  its  most  characteristic  and  amusing  passages, 
there  is  enough  left  to  introduce  the  writer  very  fairly  to  the 
public.  A  gay  man's  views  of  the  manners  of  the  Society- 
Islands — written  boldly  and  merrily  as  they  appeared  to  an  ad-- 
venturous  young  officer — could  not  be  otherwise  than  amusing, 
even  if  written  with  far  less  talent.  The  great  interest  of  the 
book,  however,  is  the  description  of  a  most  perilous  "  running  of 
the  gauntlet"  across  the  Southern  Continent  in  the  time  of  the 
late  war — Lieut.  Wise  having  been  sent,  with  secret  dispatches, 
from  the  Pacific  Squadron  to  the  city  of  Mexico,  and  having 
traversed  alone  this  twenty-five  hundred  miles,  forward  and  back, 
mostly  on  horseback,  and  with  curiously  varied  adventure.  In 
old  times  his  performances  on  this  duty  would  have  made  him  a 
theme  for  the  troubadours.  „ 

We  shall  give  next  week  some  extracts  from  this  delightful 
book,  "  Los  Gringos,"  (which  we  believe  is  a  Spanish  phrase, 
partially  of  reproach,  and  means  foreigners  who  are  in  search  of 
adventure,)  and  we  stop  for  the  present  with  commending  it  to 
the  perusal  of  all  who  would  know  more  of  strange  scenes  and 
places,  and  who  are  curious,  moreover,  to  know  how  life  looks,  in 
these  its  outskirts,  to  an  unbaptized  author  and  a  gentleman  of 
genius. 


MADEMOISELLE  ALB(WL 

A  GLIMPSE  that  we  once  had  of  this  lady,  who  is  the  present 
"rage"  in  London,  may  possibly  be  worth  mentioning  to  our 
friendly  readers.  We  were  passing  a  solitary  day  in  Hamburg, 
some  three  years  ago — on  our,  return  to  London  from  Berlin. 
The  weather  was  vile,  and,  after  a  weary  morning  of  trudging 
through  the  dirty  streets  under  an  umbrella,  we  sat  down  to  the 
table-d'hote  dinner  of  the  Hotel,  expecting  no  company  but 
foreign  clerks  and  supercargoes,  and  inclined  to  satisfy  our  hun 
ger  with  shut  eyes  and  ears.  The  soup  was  removed,  when  two 
persons  entered  whom  we  took  at  first  sight  to  be  rather  flashy 
foreigners,  and  whom  we  should  have  guessed  to  be  professed 
gamblers,  but  that  the  landlord  made  room  for  them  at  the  head 
of  the  table  with  more  deference  than  is  given  to  ordinary 
travellers.  One  was  a  slight,  dark-whiskered  man  with  a  mous-. 
tache,  not  very  prepossessing.  The  other  was  a  fat  and  smooth 
faced  youth,  with  long  hair  parted  on  the  middle  of  the  head,  fine 
teeth  and  fine  eyes,  an  expression  of  the  most  sensuous  joyousness, 
and  the  impulsive  laugh  of  a  child.  The  dress  of  the  latter  was 
rather  theatrical,  the  shirt  bosom  elaborately  worked  and  ruffled, 
collar  turned  down,  cravat  loose,  and  the  waistcoat  ready  to  burst 


A   DISGUISE.  229 


its  tightly  drawn  buttons  with  the  most  un-inasculine  fulness  of 
the  chest.  A  constant  thrusting  of  the  hands  cavalierly  into  the 
trowsers  pockets  when  not  engaged  in  eating,  an  apparently  com 
plete  unconsciousness  of  observation,  and  a  readiness  to  laugh 
loud  at  the  least  encouragement,  amused  us  in  our  idle  looking- 
on,  but,  though  beard  there  was  none,  we  had  no  idea  that  the 
fat  personage  in  the  baggy-hipped  pantaloons  was  a  woman ! 
We  left  the  table,  as  the  merry  mouth  we  had  been  looking  at 
was  taking  the  first  puff  of  a  cigar,  and  the  next  morning,  as  we 
were  taking  our  departure,  the  landlord  informed  us  that  our 
jolly  vis-a-vis  was  the  celebrated  Mademoiselle  Alboni ! 


SIR  WILLIAM  DON, 

BEFORE  speaking  of  this  gentleman's  performance,  we  should 
confess  to  having  gone  to  the  Play  with  very  erroneous  impres 
sions.  The  town  chat  wholly  misrepresented  what  was  to  be 
looked  for.  A  baronet's  appearance  as  a  theatrical  "  star"  was, 
of  course,  matter  for  lively  curiosity,  and,  that  his  favorite  line  of 
characters  should  be  the  clowns  of  low  comedy,  was  quite  enough 
to  give  the  new  star  a  comet's  equipment — of  a  tale.  And,  to  the 
usual  and  invariable  demurrer,  ("  the  papers  say  so  and  so,  but 
what  is  the/<z<tf  ?")  the  tale  was  told,  viz  : — that  Sir  William  was 
a  London  blase,  who  had  ruined  himself  with  drink  and  dissipa 
tion,  and,  having  shown  a  little  talent  over  the  bottle,  as  a 
buffoon,  he  had  slid  over  the  horizon  where  the  sun  and  other 
luminaries  go  to  recuperate,  and  was  trying  the  stage  as  a  despe 
rate  extremity.  The  play  advertised  was  the  Comedy  of  "  Used- 
Tip,"  and  we  took  our  seat  in  the  parterre,  sorry  for  the  profes 
sional  necessity  which  made  it  worth  while  for  us  to  see  what  we 
erroneously  presumed  would  be  only  a  humiliating  commentary 
on  the  title  of  the  piece. 

Curious  enough — (a  phenomenon  we  scarce  ever  saw  before) — 
the  "  house"  was  both  very  thin  and  very  fashionable.  The 


CURIOUS    AUDIENCE.  231 


ladies  who  prefer  "  fast  men"  were  there,  in  un-missing  Pleiades. 
The  belles  who  think  for  themselves — a  sparse  and  glittering 
sprinkle  of  the  Via  Lactea — were  brilliantly  conspicuous.  It 
looked  well  for  the  new  comer  that  the  twenty  or  thirty  men  who 
constitute  the  average  maximum  of  presentable  English  in  New 
York,  seemed  all  to  be  there.  The  remainder  of  the  audience 
might  apparently  have  been  divided  between  the  press-ditti,  the 
indigenous  dandies,  the  sporting  men,  and  a  few  innocent 
"  strangers  in  town"  who  had  come  to  see  a  live  Baronet. 

O 

The  supernumeraries  dialogued  up  the  attention  of  the  audi 
ence,  and  in  walked  Sir  William  as  "  Sir  Charles" — a  Baronet 
representing  a  Baronet — and  proceeded  to  picture  the  insuffera- 
bleness  of  an  unarousable  platitude  of  sensation.  The  reader 
knows  the  play — turning  on  the  exhaustion  of  the  sensibilities  for 
pleasure,  and  their  renewal  by  a  little  wedlock  and  adversity. 
We  began  to  think,  after  a  few  sentences — it  was  so  perfectly 
like  a  scene  in  a  real  life — that  Sir  William  was  disgusted  with 
his  thin  audience,  and  was  simply  repeating  the  part,  in  his  own 
character,  for  form's  sake.  Meantime  we  had  taken  a  look  at 
the  man. 

Sir  William — (as  little  as  possible  like  the  "  used-up"  Sir 
Charles  of  the  play) — was  an  unusually  tall  specimen  of  health 
and  adolescence,  with  that  unexplainable  certainty  of  a  clean 
shirt  and  every  pore  open,  which  distinguishes  those  Englishmen 
to  whom  economy  in  washing  has  never  been  suggested.  A 
clear  eye  ;  a  remarkably  thin  and  translucent  nostril ;  a  skin  be 
neath  whose  fresh  surface  his  wine,  if  he  had  ever  drank  any,  had 
played  the  "  Arethusa,  coming  never  to  the  light ;"  singularly 
beautiful  teeth,  and  a  smile  as  new  and  easy  as  a  girl's  of  sixteen  ; 
a  long-leggedness  that  would  have  been  awkward  with  anything 


232  NATURAL   ACTING. 


but  the  unconsciousness  of  good  blood  ;  hands  (the  rarest  accom 
plishment  in  the  world)  with  every  finger  negligently  at  ease ; 
perfect  self-possession,  and  an  Englishman's  upper  and  lower 
nationalities,  (long  straps  and  chin  in  a  voluminous  parenthesis  of 
shirt  collar,)  were  some  of  the  particulars  of  the  Sir  "William  we 
were  compelled  to  substitute  for  the  one  we  had  expected  to  see. 

As  we  said  before,  Sir  William  seemed  to  have  given  up  the 
idea  of  acting,  and  to  be  simply  walking  through  the  part  in  his 
own  character.  He  received  the  gay  widow  who  came  in  for 
charity,  "  proposed"  to  her  for  excitement,  showed  a  lord-and- 
master's  half-awareness  that  his  pretty  little  dependent  foster- 
sister  was  in  love  with  him,  quizzed  his  companions,  yawned  and 
lounged — exactly  as  a  gentleman  in  real  life  would  do  every  one 
of  these  very  things.  In  France,  of  course,  this  would  be  the 
perfection  of  acting.  On  the  English  and  American  stage,  where 
nothing  "  brings  down  the  house"  but  exaggeration  and  carica 
ture,  it  is  voted  "  slow,"  "  tame,"  and  "  a  failure,"  as  we  had 
heard  it  described. 

But,  we  have  yet  to  speak  of  the  novelty  for  Americans,  that  is 
to  be  found  in  the  performances  of  this  new  star,  viz : — the  tone, 
accentuation  and  pronunciation  of  the  English  language,  as  spoken 
by  gay,  clever,  high-born  and  high-bred  young  Englishmen.  We 
do  not  believe  there  could  possibly  be  a  finer  example  of  this, 
than  in  Sir  William  Don.  Simple  as  it  seems,  and  unconsciously 
as  he  does  it,  it  is  an  art  that  must  have  been  begun  by  a  man's 
grandmother,  at  least,  and  cannot  be  learned  in  one  generation. 
A  vulgar  nobleman  (and  there  are  such  things)  cannot  do  it.  A 
man  must  have  good  taste,  and  conscious  superiority,  as  well  as 
good  blood  and  conversance  with  the  best  society,  to  speak  that 
quality  of  English.  The  playful  but  perfect  justice  to  every  con- 


PRONUNCIATION    OF    ENGLISH.  233 


sonant  and  vowel — an  apparent  carelessness  governed  by  the 
classic  correctness  of  Eton  and  Oxford — a  clean  tongued  and 
metallic  delivery  of  cadences — a  delicately  judicious  apotheosis  of 
now  and  then  a  slang  word — a  piquant  unexpectedness  in  the 
location  of  such  tones  as  precede  smiles  or  affectations  of  ignor 
ance — a  certain  reluctance  of  the  voice,  as  if  following  the  thought 
superciliously — and,  withal,  a  sort  of  absolute  incapability  of 
being  disturbed  or  astonished  into  a  variation  of  even  a  quarter 
of  a  tone — are  among  the  component  elements  of  this  which  we 
call  an  art,  and  which  is,  of  all  the  tests  of  a  man's  quality  in 
England,  the  most  relied  upon  and  the  most  unmistakeable.  To 
most  oi  those  who  hear  Sir  William  Don,  his  nice  excellence  in 
this  difficult  art  will  seem  only  a  simple  and  natural  way  he  has  of 
speaking ;  but,  to  artistic  ears  and  perceptions  practised  in 
travel,  it  will  be  a  luxury  indeed  to  hear  him — (in  parts,  that  is 
to  say,  where  he  personates  a  gentleman,  and  does  not  disguise 
his  voice  and  accent.)  The  way  English  is  spoken  by  the  men 
of  mark  in  St  James'  street,  is  a  Jenny-Lind-ism  in  its  way — as 
inimitable  as  her  copy  of  the  articulation  of  "  the  blest" — and, 
if  Sir  William  Don  would  confine  himself  to  high  comedy,  and 
show  us  the  gentleman  only,  he  would,  with  his  natural  gift  at 
imitation,  and  his  evidently  superior  talent,  make  a  special  orbit 
of  success  for  himself,  while,  at  the  same  time,  he  gives  us,  in 
America,  what  nobody  else  on  the  stage  is  at  all  likely  to  treat 
us  to. 


PARODI'S  LUCREZIA  BORGIA, 

FROM  a  Chevalier  Bayard  to  a  Don  Quixote — from  an  "  enter 
prising  merchant"  to  a  headstrong  bankrupt — from  a  philanthro 
pist  to  an  egotist — from  a'saint  to  a  hypocrite — from  the  finest 
eloquence  to  the  flattest  bombast,  and  from  true  poetry  to  terri 
ble  twaddle — are  some  of  the  thousand  variations  of  that  "  one 
step"  mentioned  in  the  old  proverb  "  from  the  sublime  to  the 
ridiculous."  The  more  we  see  of  the  "successes"  of  this  world, 
the  closer  seems  to  us  the  neighborhood  between  every  true  thing 
and  its  counterfeit,  and  the  more  critical  the  risk  of  taking  the 
wrong  for  the  right  one.  We  never  saw  a  more  even  chance  of 
"  hit  or  miss"  than  in  the  acting  of  Parodi.  In  Norma,  she 
made  such  a  false  extravaganza  of  the  part,  that  we  gave  up  all 
hope  of  being  pleased  with  her — in  Lucrezia  Borgia,  she  played 
and  sang  most  daringly  and  truthfully  well.  If  we  had  seen  her 
first  in  this  her  second  performance,  we  should  have  received  a 
very  different  impression  from  her  debut — eagerly  looking  for  her 
next  evening's  brilliancy,  as  a  star  of  the  first  magnitude,  instead 
of  dropping  telescope,  as  we  did,  not  to  waste  our  astronomy  on 
an  ignis  fatuus  that  we  presumed  would  presently  dissolve. 

To  treat  our  country  readers  to  something  new  about  Parodi, 


PECULIARITY    OF    LIP.  235 

however — the  critics  having  left  all  the  adjectives  in  the  language 
breathless  with  praising  her — let  us  say  a  word  or  two  upon  the 
defect  that  is  most  apparent. 

There  are  female  physiognomies  that  would  be  improved  by  a 
moustache  ;  but  Parodi  has  an  accidental  need  of  one — over  and 
above  the  common  disadvantage  which  her  sex  experience  from 
Nature's  refusal  of  this  trifle  of  peltry  to  their  furniture  of  ex 
pression.  Her  upper  lip,  (long  enough  for  all  the  uses  of  beauty, 
in  repose,)  is  too  short  for  some  of  the  expressions  of  tragedy, 
though  this  would  be  less  observable  if  there  were  not  a  short 
coming  within  as  well  as  without— a  failure,  apparently,  of  the 
lubricating  moisture,  at  moments  of  emotion,  so  that  the  lip,  in 
stead  of  sliding  down  into  a  look  of  fury  or  sorrow,  is  left  "  high 
and  dry"  above  the  teeth,  stranded  immovably  upon  a  smile! 
How  a  moustache,  which  would  cover  this  inaction  of  the  upper 
lip,  might  improve  the  tragic  power  of  Siguorraa  Parodi,  those 
who  have  looked  into  the  advantages  of  this  labial  domino  of  our 
sex  will  easily  understand.  As  it  is,  she  seems,  every  now  and 
then,  strangely  to  depart  from  the  consistency  of  what  she  repre 
sents,  by  an  untimely  introduction  of  a  smile  amid  the  most 
tragic  gestures  and  music. 

It  was  by  chancing  to  have  taken  a  seat  very  near  the  stage, 
that  we  alone  discovered  how  completely  and  powerfully  the  play 
of  the  other  features  was  tragic  throughout ;  and  we  think  it 
worth  while  to  guard  those  who  see  Parodi  from  a  distance, 
against  taking  for  smiles  what  are  only  the  refusals  of  the  agitat 
ed  bivalve,  dried  with  the  fever  of  excitement,  to  close  over  the 
pearls  meant  to  tempt  the  diver  only  in  sunshine.  While  critics 
may  sit  near  the  stage,  however,  the  public  generally  will  still  be 
at  a  distance,  where  this  defect  cannot  but  mislead ;  and  we 


236  PASSION    OR    GENIUS? 


should  think,  (by  the  way,)  that  an  inactivity  in  a  female  lip  is  a 
defect  that  might  be  overcome.  Those  of  us  who  have  never 
suffered  from  torpidity  in  this  particular  muscle,  can  scarcely 
judge — but,  more  exercise  for  her  upper  lip,  in  some  way  that  will 
make  the  vital  fluid  supply  its  secretions  more  promptly,  should 
be  urged  upon  Signorina  Parodi,  we  venture  respectfully  to 
suggest. 

Having  thus  mentioned,  what,  in  the  performance  of  Lucrezia 
Borgia,  was  the  only  point  of  objection  worth  naming,  we  need 
only  express  our  entire  concurrence  in  the  admiration  that  has 
been  showered  upon  this  powerful  actress  and  delicious  singer  by 
M.  de  Trobriand  and  other  critics.  Her  voice  is  the  very  essence 
of  the  melody  of  passion — intense,  edge-less,  rich,  liquid  and  in 
toxicating — a  curagoa  among  the  wines  of  operatic  voices. 
How  her  fright,  on  the  night  of  her  first  singing  in  Norrna,  could 
so  have  disguised  this  last  named  excellence,  we  cannot  easily 
understand.  We  went,  on  Friday  night,  prepared  neither  for 
the  voice  nor  the  acting  which,  (without  repeating  the  critical 
particulars  given  in  other  journals,  we  will  simply  say,)  so 
enchanted  us.  The  evening's  sensations  took  us  entirely  by  sur 
prise.  Though,  even  yet,  it  does  not  seem  to  be  genius  that  she 
has.  She  is  like  a  mill,  whose  expected  current  is  low,  but 
whose  wheels  are  set  in  motion  by  a  side  brook,  swelled  with  a 
storm  in  the  mountains.  Her  intense  capabilities  of  passion  as  a 
woman  seem  to  have  rushed  into  the  channel  of  genius,  and  to 
have  aroused  to  the  uttermost  every  nerve  and  muscle  by  which 
genius  would  copy  nature.  Whether  she  will  bring  these  same 
impulses  to  bear  upon  other  Operas — what  sort  of  "  Elvira"  she 
will  be — we  cannot  feel  sure.  We  should  recommend  to  her  not 
to  try  the  "  Somnambula."  But,  as  a  "  Lucrezia  Borgia," 


MALE    GAIT.  .         237 


Signorina  Parodi,  (we  rejoice  to  be  able  to  say,)  must  be  allowed 

worthy  of  the  mantle  of  Pasta.  * 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Parodi  in  moustache  and  male  attire,  playing  the  Romeo  to  a 
Juliet's  first  appearance,  has  been  a  novelty  by  which  the  Opera 
has  profited,  lately — no  seat  being  vacant  except  those  of  the 
very  fashionable  subscribers.  Great  interest  was  felt  to  see  how 
the  vehement  prima  donna  would  make  love  in  hose  and  doublet, 
and  she,  at  least,  satisfied  curiosity  as  to  her  probable  idea  of 
what  energy  is  usually  expected.  She  did  it  like  a  man.  The 
absence  of  petticoats  was  no  embarrassment  to  her  usual  locomo 
tive  unconsciousness,  and,  indeed,  if  her  "  means  of  getting  over 
the  ground"  had  been  used  to  daylight  all  their  lives,  they  could 
not  have  strided  about  with  promptitude  more  easy  and  fearless. 
She  played  admirably,  and  sang — with  that  luscious  satisfying- 
ness  to  the  ear,  which  a  ripe  apricot  gives  to  the  throat  in  a  sum 
mer  noon.  So  fruity  and  sensuous  a  voice  we  certainly  never 
have  heard,  as  this  of  Parodi.  The  low  notes  which  are  so 
remarkable,  and  which  she  seems  to  undervalue,  (as  people  often 
undervalue  their  best  gifts,)  found  their  proper  occasion  under 
the  hat  and  feathers  of  Roiheo,  and  drew  a  murmur  of  delight 
from  the  audience,  whenever  they  ploughed  up  the  mellow 
cadences  of  adolescence  for  the  ear  of  the  blushing  Juliet.  We 
may  add,  by  the  way,  that  the  moustache  was  very  becoming  to 
Parodi's  short  upper  lip,  though,  perhaps,  it  is  hardly  evangelical 
to  admire  it — the  Bible  declaring  (Deuteronomy  xxii.  5,)  that 
"  the  woman  shall  not  wear  that  which  pertaineth  unto  a  man." 

Of  Miss  Whiting,  the  debutante,  the  critics  have  left  us  no 
thing  to  say.  She  was  dressed  charmingly,  looked  pretty,  sang 
correctly,  and  was  vociferously  applauded.  The  audience  called 


238  JULIET    IN    A    PIE. 


her  on  the  stage  after  each  Act,  and  there  was  a  hearty  laugh  at 
the  consistent  gallantry  with  which  Parodi-Romeo  picked  up  the 
bouquets  and  presented  them  lovingly  to  Juliet — half  of  them,  at 
least,  intended  doubtless  for  herself.  It  was  in  these  stoopings- 
down,  by  the  way,  that  her  movements  made  their  only  betrayal 
of  the  disguise — the  knee-joints  bending  woman-esquely  inwards 
instead  of  man-ishly  outwards — in  all  other  points  the  gallant 
prima  donna  acting  as  any  gentleman  would  do  in  her  place. 

We  were  prepared,  of  course,  with  the  rest  of  the  audience,  to 
feel  very  pensive  over  Juliet's  entombment;  but  the  resemblance 
of  the  sarcophagus  to  a  cold  French  pie,  caused  a  general  smile, 
which  was  suddenly  turned  into  a  laugh  when  two  attendants 
bustled  in,  like  waiters  at  a  hotel,  and  took  off  the  cover  for 
Romeo — disclosing  apparently,  a  demoiselle  a  la  creme,  served  up 
with  the  delicacy  of  things  at  a  cook's  window  in  Paris.  The 
snowy  white  muslin,  puffed  up  above  the  edges  of  the  brown 
crust,  looked  really  as  if  it  might  be  taken  up  in  spoonsful,  and 
eaten,  as  "  trifles"  are. 

The  more  we  hear  Parodi,  the  more  we  deplore  the  prospect 
of  her  return  to  Europe.  We  are  certain  that  we  shall  have  no 
one  to  fill  her  place — take  her,  altogether,  as  an  actress,  singer, 
and  artist  of  indomitable  energy  and  adaptability.  She  is  a 
treasure  worth  taking  some  pains  to  keep  this  side  the  water. 


TRUFFI, 

MADAME  TRUFFI-BENEDETTI.  has  reappeared,  and  sang,  in 
"  Parisina,"  to  a  better  house  than  most  of  those  drawn  by 
Parodi.  She  was  enthusiastically  applauded,  and  sang  and 
played  well — though  she  disappointed  us,  we  must  own,  by  not 
doing  half  she  could  do — a  retenu  which  we  trusted  that  matri 
mony  and  Parodi's  example  would  have  overcome.  The  secret 
of  it  is,  we  suspect,  that  she  is  too  happy  a  woman.  There  are 
closed  fountains  of  tears  that  must  be  broken  up,  and  place  left 
for  the  deeper  and  angrier  passions,  before  she  can  become  pos 
sessed  entirely  by  the  spirit  of  tragedy.  And  yet,  her  capabilities 
are  so  visible  !  It  is  so  manifest  that  the  stuff  for  a  great  actress 
and  singer  is  in  her  !  With  her  remarkable  beauty  of  person, 
her  other  sufficient  gifts  could  be  so  advantageously  developed  ! 
Is  there  no  chance  of  her  being  made  unhappy  enough  to  be 
qualified  for  the  laurels  that  await  her  ?  Would  not  looser 
dresses,  and  a  glass  of  champagne  before  coming  upon  the  stage, 
give  this  superb  bud  of  genius  the  impulse  to  unfold  ?  Charming 
as  she  is,  and  many  as  are  her  admirers,  Signora  Truffi  must  be 
much  more  before  her  best  appreciators  will  be  contented. 


EDGAR  POE, 

THE  ancient  fable  of  two  antagonistic  spirits  imprisoned  in  one 
body,  equally  powerful  and  having  the  complete  mastery  by 
turns — of  one  man,  that  is  to  say,  inhabited  by  both  a  devil  and 
an  angel — seems  to  have  been  realized,  if  all  we  hear  is  true,  in 
the  character  of  the  extraordinary  man  whose  name  we  have 
written  above.  Our  own  impression  of  the  nature  of  Edgar  Poe, 
differing,  in  some  important  degree,  however,  from  that  which  has 
been  generally  conveyed  in  the  notices  of  his  death,  let  us,  before 
telling  what  we  personally  know  of  him,  copy  a  graphic  and 
highly  finished  portraiture,  from  the  pen  of  Dr.  Rufus  W. 
Griswold,  which  appeared  in  a  recent  number  of  the  Tribune  : — 

"  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  is  dead.  He  died  in  Baltimore  on  Sunday,  October 
7th.  This  announcement  will  startle  many,  but  few  will  be  grieved  by  it. 
The  poet  was  known,  personally  or  by  reputation,  in  all  this  country ;  he  had 
readers  in  England,  and  in  several  of  the  states  of  Continental  Europe ;  but 
he  had  few  or  no  friends;  and  the  regrets  for  his  death  will  be  suggested 
principally  by  the  consideration  that  in  him  literary  art  has  lost  one  of  its 
most  brilliant  but  erratic  stars." 

*#:*:*:*##:*:**## 

"His  conversation  was  at  times  almost  supra-mortal  in  its  eloquence. 
His  voice  was  modulated  with  astonishing  skill,  and  his  large  and  variably 


FOE'S    CONVERSATION.  241 

expressive  eyes  looked  repose  or  shot  fiery  tumult  into  theirs  who  listened, 
while  his  own  face  glowed,  or  was  changeless  in  pallor,  as  his  imagination 
quickened  his  blood  or  drew  it  back  frozen  to  his  heart.  His  imagery  was 
from  the  worlds  which  no  mortals  can  see  but  with  the  vision  of  genius. 
Suddenly  starting  from  a  proposition,  exactly  and  sharply  defined  in  terms 
of  utmost  simplicity  and  clearness,  he  rejected  the  forms  of  customary  logic, 
and  by  a  crystalline  process  of  accretion,  built  up  his  ocular  demonstrations 
in  forms  of  gloomiest  and  ghastliest  grandeur,  or  in  those  of  the  most  airy 
and  delicious  beauty — so  minutely  and  distinctly,  yet  so  rapidly,  that  the 
attention  which  was  yielded  to  him  was  chained  till  it  stood  among  his 
wonderful  creations — till  he  himself  dissolved  the  spell,  and  brought  his 
hearers  back  to  common  and  base  existence,  by  vulgar  fancies  or  exhibitions 
of  the  ignoblest  passion. 

"  He  was  at  all  times  a  dreamer — dwelling  in  ideal  realms — in  heaven  or 
in  hell— peopled  with  the  creatures  and  the  accidents  of  his  brain.  He 
walked  the  streets,  in  madness  or  melancholy,  with  lips  moving  in  indistinct 
curses,  or  with  eyes  upturned  in  passionate  prayer,  (never  for  himself,  for  he 
felt,  or  professed  to  feel,  that  he  was  already  damned,  but)  for  their  happiness 
who  at  the  moment  were  objects  of  his  idolatry; — or,  with  his  glances 
introverted  to  a  heart  gnawed  with  anguish,  and  with  a  face  shrouded  in 
gloom,  he  would  brave  the  wildest  storms;  and  all  night,  with  drenched 
garments  and  arms  beating  the  winds  and  rains,  would  speak  as  if  to  spirits 
that  at  such  times  only  could  be  evoked  by  him  from  the  Aidenn  close  by 
whose  portrait  his  disturbed  soul  sought  to  forget  the  ills  to  which  his 
constitution  subjected  him — close  by  the  Aidenn  where  were  those  he  loved 
— the  Aidenn  which  he  might  never  see,  but  in  fitful  glimpses,  as  its  gates 
opened  to  receive  the  less  fiery  and  more  happy  natures  whose  destiny  to  sin 
did  not  involve  the  doom  of  death. 

"He  seemed,  except  when  some  fitful  pursuit  subjugated  his  will  and 
engrossed  his  faculties,  always  to  bear  the  memory  of  some  controlling 
sorrow.  The  remarkable  poem  of  The  Raven  was  probably  much  more 
nearly  than  has  been  supposed,  even  by  those  who  were  very  intimate  with 
him,  a  reflection  and  an  echo  of  his  own  history.  4Ie  was  that  bird's 

"  ' Unhappy  master, 

Whom  unmerciful  Disaster 
11 


242  CHARACTER    IN    WRITINGS. 

Followed  fast  and  followed  faster, 

Till  his  songs  the  burden  bore — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope,  the 

Melancholy  burden  bore 
Of  *  Never,  nevermore.' ' 

"  Every  genuine  author  in  a  greater  or  less  degree  leaves  in  his  works, 
whatever  their  design,  traces  of  his  personal  character:  elements  of  his 
immortal  being,  in  which  the  individual  survives  the  person.    While  we 
read  the  pages  of  the  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher,  or  of  Mesmeric  Revelations, 
we  see  in  the  solemn  and  stately  gloom  which  invests  one,  and  in  the  subtle 
metaphysical  analysis  of  both,  indications  of  the  idiosyncracies — of  what  was 
most  remarkable  and  peculiar— in  the  author's  intellectual  nature.    But  we 
see  here  only  the  better  phases  of  his  nature,  only  the  symbols  of  his  juster 
action,  for  his  harsh  experience  had  deprived  him  of  all  faith,  in  man  or 
woman.    He  had  made  up  his  mind  upon  the  numberless  complexities  of 
the  social  world,  and  the  whole  system  with  him  was  an  imposture.     This 
conviction  gave  a  direction  to  his  shrewd  and  naturally  unamiable  character. 
Still,  though  he  regarded  society  as  composed  altogether  of   villains,  the 
sharpness  of  his  intellect  was  not  of  that  kind  which  enabled  him  to  cope 
with  villainy,  while  it  continually  caused  him  by  overshots  to  fail  of  the 
success  of  honesty.     He  was  in  many  respects  like  Francis  Vivian  in 
Bulwer's  novel  of  "  The  Caxtons.'7     Passion,  in  him,  comprehended  many 
of  the  worst  emotions  which  militate  against  human  happiness.    You  could 
not  contradict  him,  but.  you  raised  quick  choler ;  you  could  not  speak  of 
wealth,  but  his  cheek  paled  with  gnawing  envy.    The  astonishing  natural 
advantages  of  this  poor  boy— his  beauty,  his  readiness,  the  daring  spirit 
that  breathed  around  him  like  a  fiery  atmosphere — had  raised  his  constitu 
tional  self-confidence  into  an  arrogance  that  turned  his  very  claims  to 
admiration  into  prejudices  against  him.     Irascible,  envious — bad  enough,  but 
not  the  worst,  for  these  salient  angles  were  all  varnished  over  with  a  cold 
repellent  cynicism,  his  passions  vented  themselves  in  sneers.    There  seemed 
to  him  no  moral  susceptibility ;  and,  what  was  more  remarkable  in  a  proud 
nature,  little  or  nothing  of  the  true  point  of  honor.     He  had,  to  a  morbid 
excess,  that  desire  to  rise  which  is  vulgarly  called  ambition,  but  no  wish  for 


ANNABEL    LEE. 


243 


the  esteem  or  the  love  of  his  species ;  only  the  hard  wish  to  succeed not 

shine,  not  serve — succeed,  that  he  might  have  the  right  to  despise  a  world 
which  galled  his  self-conceit. 

"  We  have  suggested  the  influence  of  his  aims  and  vicissitudes  upon  his 
literature.  It  was  more  conspicuous  in  his  later  than  in  his  earlier  writings. 
Nearly  all  that  he  wrote  in  the  last  two  or  three  years— including  much  of 
his  best  poetry — was  in  some  sense  biographical;  in  draperies  of  his  imagina 
tion,  those  who  had  taken  the  trouble  to  trace  his  steps,  could  perceive,  but 
slightly  concealed,  the  figure  of  himself. 

''There  are,  perhaps,  some  of  our  readers  who  will  understand  the 
allusions  of  the  following  beautiful  poem.  Mr.  Poe  presented  it  in  MS.  to 
the  writer  of  these  paragraphs,  just  before  he  left  New  York,  recently, 
remarking  that  it  was  the  last  thing  he  had  written : 

ANNABEL  LEE. 
"  It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee ; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 
Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

"  /  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea ; 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love — 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee — 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

"  And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ; 
So  that  her  high-born  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 


244  SKETCH    OF    POE. 


"  The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me — 
Yes ! — that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

"  But  our  love,  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we — 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we — 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  never  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  : 

"  For  the  moon  never  beams,  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  : 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling — my  darling — my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  her  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea — 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea." 

Apropos  of  the  disparaging  portion  of  the  above  well-written 
sketch,  let  us  truthfully  say  : — 

Some  four  or  five  years  since,  when  editing  a  daily  paper  in 
this  city,  Mr.  Poe  was  employed  by  us,  for  several  months,  as 
critic  and  sub-editor.  This  was  our  first  personal  acquaintance 
with  him.  He  resided  with  his  wife  and  mother,  at  Fordham,  a 
few  miles  out  of  town,  but  was  at  his  desk  in  the  office,  from  nine 
in  the  morning  till  the  evening  paper  went  to  press.  With  the 
highest  admiration  for  his  genius,  and  a  willingness  to  let  it  atone 
for  more  than  ordinary  irregularity,  we  were  led  by  common 
report  to  expect  a  very  capricious  attention  to  his  duties,  and 


PERSONAL    HABITS. 


245 


occasionally  a  scene  of  violence  and  difficulty.  Time  went  on, 
however,  and  lie  was  invariably  punctual  and  industrious.  With 
his  pale,  beautiful  and  intellectual  face,  as  a  reminder  of  what 
genius  was  in  him,  it  was  impossible,  of  course,  not  to  treat  him 
always  with  deferential  courtesy,  and,  to  our  occasional  request 
that  he  would  not  probe  too  deep  in  a  criticism,  or  that  he  would 
erase  a  passage  colored  too  highly  with  his  resentments  against 
society  and  mankind,  he  readily  and  courteously  assented — far 
more  yielding  than  most  men,  we  thought,  on  points  so  excusably 
sensitive.  With  a  prospect  of  taking  the  lead  in  another 
periodical,  he,  at  last,  voluntarily  gave  up  his  employment  with 
us,  and,  through  all  this  considerable  period,  we  had  seen  but  one 
presentment  of  the  man — a  quiet,  patient,  industrious  and  most 
gentlemanly  person,  commanding  the  utmost  respect  and  good 
feeling  by  his  unvarying  deportment  and  ability. 

Residing  as  he  did  in  the  country,  we  never  met  Mr.  Poe  in 
hours  of  leisure  j^but  he  frequently  called  on  us  afterwards  at  our 
place  of  business,  and  we  met  him  often  in  the  street — invariably 
the  same  sad-mannered,  winning  and  refined  gentleman,  such  as 
we  had  always  known  him.  It  was  by  rumor  only,  up  to  the  day 
rf  his  death,  that  we  knew  of  any  other  development  of  manner 
)r  character.  We  heard,  from  one  who  knew  him  well,  (what 
should  be  stated  in  all  mention  of  his  lamentable  irregularities,) 
ihat,  with  a  single  glass  of  wine,  his  whole  nature  was  reversed, 
ihe  demon  became  uppermost,  and,  though  none  of  the  usual 
signs  of  intoxication  were  visible,  his  will  was  palpably  insane. 
Possessing  his  reasoning  faculties  in  excited  activity,  at  such 
imes,  and  seeking  his  acquaintances  with  his  wonted  look  and 
nemory,  he  easily  seemed  personating  only  another  phase  of  his 
latural  character,  and  was  accused,  accordingly,  of  insulting 


246  LETTER   FROM   POE, 

arrogance  and  bad-heartedness.  In- this  reversed  character,  we 
repeat,  it  was  never  our  chance  to  see  him.  We  know  it  from 
hearsay,  and  we  mention  it  in  connection  with  this  sad  infirmity 
of  physical  constitution ;  which  puts  it  upon  very  nearly  the 
ground  of  a  temporary  and  almost  irresponsible  insanity. 

The  arrogance,  vanity  and  depravity  of  heart,  of  which  Mr. 
Poe  was  generally  accused,  seem,  to  us,  referable  altogether  to 
this  reversed  phase  of  his  character.  Under  that  degree  of 
intoxication  which  only  acted  upon  him  by  demonizing  his  sense 
of  truth  and  right,  he  doubtless  said  and  did  much  that  was 
wholly  irreconcilable  with  his  better  nature ;  but,  when  himself, 
and  as  we  knew  him  only,  his  modesty  and  unaffected  humility,  as 
to  his  own  deservings,  were  a  constant  charm  to  his  character. 
His  letters  (of  which  the  constant  application  for  autographs  has 
taken  from  us,  we  are  sorry  to  confess,  the  greater  portion) 
exhibited  this  quality  very  strongly.  In  one  of  the  carelessly 
written  notes  of  which  we  chance  still  to  retain  possession,  for 
instance,  he  speaks  of  "  The  Raven" — that  extraordinary  poem 
which  electrified  the  world  of  imaginative  readers,  and  has  become 
the  type  of  a  school  of  poetry  of  its  own — and,  in  evident  earnest, 
attributes  its  success  to  the  few  words  of  commendation  with 
which  we  had  prefaced  it  in  this  paper.  It  will  throw  light  on 
his  sane  character  to  give  a  literal  copy  of  the  note : — 

"  FOBDHAM,  April  20,  1849. 

"  My  DEAR  WILLIS  : — The  poem  which  I  enclose,  and  which  I  am  so  vain 
as  to  hope  you  will  like,  in  some  respects,  has  been  just  published  in  a  paper 
for  which  sheer  necessity  compels  me  to  write,  now  and  then.  It  pays  well 
as  times  go— but  unquestionably  it  ought  to  pay  ten  prices ;  for  whatever  I 
send  it  I  feel  I  am  consigning  to  the  tomb  of  the  Capulets.  The  verses 
accompanying  this,  may  I  beg  you  to  take  out  of  the  tomb,  and  bring  them 


EVIDENCE    OF    HEART.  347 


to  light  in  the  Home  Journal?    If  you  can  oblige  me  so  far  as  to  copy 

them,  I  do  not  think  it  will  be  necessary  to  say  '  From  the  ' — that 

would  be  too  bad ;— and,  perhaps,  '  From  a  late paper,'  would  do. 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  how  a  '  good  word  in  season'  from  you  made  '  The 
Raven,'  and  made  '  Ulalume,"  (which,  by-the-way,  people  have  done  me  the 
honor  of  attributing  to  you.)  therefore  I  would  ask  you,  (if  I  dared,)  to  say 
something  of  these  lines — if  they  please  you.  Truly  yours  ever, 

"  EDGAR  A.  POE .» 

In  double  proof — of  bis  earnest  disposition  to  do  tbe  best  for 
himself,  and  of  the  trustful  and  grateful  nature  wbicb  bas  been 
denied  bim — we  give  another  of  tbe  only  tbree  of  bis  notes  wbicb 
we  chance  to  retain  : — 

"  FORDHAM,  January  22,  1848. 

"  MY  DEAR  MR.  WILLIS  : — I  am  about  to  make  an  effort  at  re-establishing 
myself  in  the  literary  world,  and  feel  that  I  may  depend  upon  your  aid. 

"  My  general  aim  is  to  start  a  Magazine,  to  be  called  "  The  Stylus :"  but  it 
would  be  useless  to  me,  even  when  established,  if  not  entirely  out  of  the 
control  of  a  publisher.  I  mean,  therefore,  to  get  up  a  Journal  which  shall 
be  my  own,  at  all  points.  With  this  end  in  view,  I  must  get  a  list  of,  at 
least,  five  hundred  subscribers  to  begin  with : — nearly  two  hundred  I  have 
already.  I  propose,  however,  to  go  South  and  West,  among  my  personal' 
and  literary  friends — old  college  and  West  Point  acquaintances — and  see 
what  I  can  do.  In  order  to  get  the  means  of  taking  the  first  step,  I  propose 
to  lecture  at  the  Society  Library,  on  Thursday,  the  3d  of  February — and, 
that  there  may  be  no  cause  of  squabbling,  my  subject  shall  not  be  literary  at 
all.  I  have  chosen  a  broad  text — "  The  Universe." 

.  "  Having  thus  given  you  the  facts  of  the  case,  I  leave  all  the  rest  to  the 
suggestions  of  your  own  tact  and  generosity.     Gratefully — most  gratefully— 
"  Your  friend  always,  EDGAR  A.  PoE.n 

Brief,  and  cbance-taken,  as  tbese  letters  are,  we  tbink  tbey 
sufficiently  prove  tbe  existence  of  the  very  qualities  denied  to  Mr. 
Poe — humility,  willingness  to  persevere,  belief  in  another's 


248  GUARDIAN    TO    GENIUS. 


kindness,  and  capability  of  cordial  and  grateful  friendship. 
Such  he  assuredly  was,  when  sane.  Such  only  he  has  invariably 
seemed  to  us,  in  all  we  have  happened  personally  to  know  of 
him,  through  a  friendship  of  five  or  six  years.  And  so  much 
easier  is  it  to  believe  what  we  have  seen  and  known,  than  what 
we  hear  of  only,  that  we  remember  him  but  with  admiration  and 
respect — these  descriptions  of  him,  when  morally  insane,  seeming 
to  us  like  portraits,  painted  in  sickness,  of  a  man  we  have  only 
known  in  health. 

But  there  is  another,  more  touching,  and  far  more  forcible 
evidence  that  there  was  goodness  in  Edgar  Poe.  To  reveal  ifc, 
we  are  obliged  to  venture  upon  the  lifting  of  the  veil  which 
sacredly  covers  grief  and  refinement  in  poverty — but  we  think  it 
nfty  be  excused,  if,  so,  we  can  brighten  the  memory  of  the  poet, 
even  were  there  not  a  more  needed  and  immediate  service  which 
it  may  render  to  the  nearest  link  broken  by  his  death. 

Our  first  knowledge  of  Mr.  Poe's  removal  to  this  city  was  by 
a  call  which  we  received  from  a  lady  who  introduced  herself  to  us 
as  the  mother  of  his  wife.  She  was  in  search  of  employment  for 
him,  and  she  excused  her  errand  by  mentioning  that  he  was  ill, 
that  her  daughter  was  a  confirmed  invalid,  and  that  their  circum 
stances  were  such  as  compelled  her  taking  it  upon  herself.  The 
countenance  of  this  lady,  made  beautiful  and  saintly  with  an 
evidently  complete  giving  up  of  her  life  to  privation  and  sorrow 
ful  tenderness,  her  gentle  and  mournful  voice  urging  its  plea,  her* 
long-forgotten  but  habitually  and  unconsciously  refined  manners, 
and  her  appealing  and  yet  appreciative  mention  of  the  claims  and 
abilities  of  her  son,  disclosed  at  once  the  presence  of  one  of 
those  angels  upon  earth  that  women  in  adversity  can  be.  It  was 
a  hard  fate  that  she  was  watching  over.  Mr.  Poe  wrote  with 


TOUCHING    LETTER.  249 


fastidious  difficulty,  and  in  a  style  too  much  above  the  popular 
level  to  be  well  paid.  He  was  always  in  pecuniary  difficulty,  and, 
with  his  sick  wife,  frequently  in  want  of  the  merest  necessaries 
of  life.  Winter  after  winter,  for  years,  the  most  touching  sight 
to  us,  in  this  whole  city,  has  been  that  tireless  minister  to  genius, 
thinly  and  insufficiently  clad,  going  from  office  to  office  with  a 
poem,  or  an  article  on  some  literary  subject,  to  sell — sometimes 
simply  pleading  in  a  broken  voice  that  he  was  ill,  and  begging  for 
him — mentioning  nothing  but  that  "  he  was  ill,"  whatever  might 
be  the  reason  for  his  writing  nothing — and  never,  amid  all  her 
tears  and  recitals  of  distress,  suffering  one  syllable  to  escape  her 
lips  that  could  convey  a  doubt  of  him,  or  a  complaint,  or  a 
lessening  of  pride  in  his  genius  and  good  intentions.  Her  daugh 
ter  died,  a  year  and  a  half  since,  but  she  did  not  desert  him. 
She  continued  his  ministering  angel — living  with  him — caring  for 
him — guarding  him  against  exposure,  and,  when  he  was  carried 
away  by  temptation,  amid  grief  and  the  loneliness  of  feelings 
unreplied  to,  and  awoke  from  his  self-abandonment  prostrated  in 
destitution  and  suffering,  legging  for  him  still.  If  woman's 
devotion,  born  with  a  first  love  and  fed  with  human  passion, 
hallow  its  object,  as  it  is  allowed  to  do,  what  does  not  a  devotion 
like  this — pure,  disinterested  and  holy  as  the  watch  of  an  invisible 
spirit — say  for  him  who  inspired  it  t 

We  have  a  letter  before  us,  written  bv  this  lady,  Mrs.  Clemm, 
on  the  morning  in  which  she  heard  of  the  death  of  this  object  of 
her  untiring  care.  It  is  merely  a  request  that  we  would  call  upon 
her,  but  we  will  copy  a  few  of  its  words — sacred  as  its  privacy  is 
— to  warrant  the  truth  of  the  picture  we  have  drawn  above,  and 
add  force  to  the  appeal  we  wish  to  make  for  her  : — 

*    #    "  I  have  this  morning  heard  of  the  death  of  my  darling  Eddie.    # 
11* 


250  LOVE    AT    A    GRAVE. 

*  Can  you  give  me  any  circumstances  or  particulars.    *    *    *    Oh  !  do 

not  desert  your  poor  friend  in  this  bitter  affliction.     *    *    Ask  Mr. to 

come,  as  I  must  see  him  to  deliver  a  message  to  him  from  my  poor  Eddie. 

#  #    I  need  not  ask  you  to  notice  his  death  and  to  speak  well  of  him.     I 
know  you  will.     But  say  what  an  affectionate  son  he  was  to  me,  his  poor 
desolate  mother.     *    *    * 

To  hedge  round  a  grave  with  respect,  what  choice  is  there, 
between  the  relinquished  wealth  and  honors  of  the  world,  and  the 
story  of  such  a  woman's  unrewarded  devotion  !  Risking  what  we 
do,  in  delicacy,  by  making  it  public,  we  feel — other  reasons  aside — 
that  it  betters  the  world  to  make  known  that  there  are  such 
ministrations  to  its  erring  and  gifted.  What  we  have  said  will 
speak  to  some  hearts.  There  are  those  who  will  be  glad  to  know 
how  the  lamp,  whose  light  of  poetry  has  beamed  on  their  far-away 
recognition,  was  watched  over  with  care  and  pain — that  they  may 
send  to  her,  who  is  more  darkened  than  they  by  its  extinction, 
some  token  of  their  sympathy.  She  is  destitute,  and  alone.  If 
any,  far  or  near,  will  send  to  us  what  may  aid  and  cheer  her 
through  the  remainder  of  her  life,  we  will  joyfully  place  it  in  her 
hands* 

"We  have  occupied  so  much  room  that  we  defer  speaking 
critically  of  Mr.  Poe's  writings,  as  we  intended  to  do  when  we 
sat  down,  and  this,  and  some  more  minute  details  of  biography, 
we  shall  hope  to  find  time  for,  hereafter. 


MR,  WHIPPLE, 

THE  size  of  parcels  of  thought  is  subject  to  fashion,  in  a  way 
that  is  curiously  irrational.  There  was  a  time  when  the  "  Essay" 
was  the  only  shape  of  literature  in  vogue.  Subjects  which  it 
takes  a  whole  book  to  treat,  suffered  then,  as  subjects  suffer  now 
which  are  spread  into  two-volume  novels,  though  only  properly 
the  stuff  for  an  Essay.  An  accidental  novelty  of  our  time,  the 
delivery  of  "  Lectures,"  has  fortunately  restored  the  obsolete 
thought-shape  of  Essay,  and  to  it  we  owe  the  delightful  book  be 
fore  us,  which  would  have  made  the  author  a  brilliant  reputation 
in  the  days  of  Addison  and  the  Spectator. 

The  most  precious  philosophy  of  life,  and  nicest  observation,  is 
often  buried  deep  in  the  brain  of  a  merchant,  or  a  business  man, 
unused,  because  to  produce  it  would  be  "  to  write  a  book,"  and 
that  is  too  much  of  an  undertaking.  Intellect  is  a  sea  of  which 
books  are  but  the  chance-named  inlets  formed  by  the  shaping  of 
the  shore — but  we  are  apt  to  forget  that  there  are  boundless  deeps 
of  as  bright  water,  only  nameless  because  not  separated  and  im 
prisoned  within  traceable  limits.  How  many  men  there  are,  for 
whom  the  smoke  of  a  cigar  creates  a  medium  of  thought,  and, 
while  a  friend  listens  and  the  white  clouds  cluster  and  thin  away, 


252  VALUE    OF    LECTURES. 

they  will  give  shape  to  clear-sighted  generalizations  on  human 
action,  pierce  motives,  glance  far  ahead  to  probabilities,  and,  in 
fact,  give  all  of  an  Essay  but  the  inking  over  of  the  words  to  pre 
serve  them  !  Such  men  are  in  every  community,  and  it  should 
be  (if  we  may  make  a  suggestion  we  have  often  thought  of  mak 
ing)  the  business  of  "  Lyceums"  and  "  Lecture  Committees,"  to 
procure  for  many  what  these  thinkers  give  to  one — to  look  up 
the  men  who  have  "  views  of  their  own,"  and  offer  them  induce 
ments  to  lecture.  In  this  way  the  public  would  get  at  something 
which  were  else  lost,  and  something  original  and  new — whereas, 
by  the  lectures  of  professed  authors,  they  only  get  some  slight 
variation  of  the  thoughts  they  find  in  books  and  newspapers. 

The  positive  day  or  the  positive  night  of  a  subject  is  easy  to 
handle ;  but  there  are  dawns  and  twilights  of  transition,  in  all 
subjects,  which  it  requires  the  discrimination  of  a  master  to  de 
fine  and  portray,  and  these  are  the  regions  for  Essay-writing. 
The  choice  of  subjects  in  the  volume  before  us  shows  that  Mr. 
W  hippie  has  thus  chosen  his  topics  from  matters  of  most  difficult 
analysis  : — "  Intellectual  Health  and  Disease,"  "  Authors  in  their 
Relations  to  Life,"  "  Wit  and  Humor,"  "  The  Ludicrous  Side 
of  Life,"  "  Genius,"  etc.  He  is,  as  our  readers  probably  know, 
a  business  man,  who  does  his  thinking  "  on  the  Rialto,"  and  as  an 
aside  from  commerce ;  but,  as  those  who  read  these  Essays  will 
see,  he  has  the  keen  insight  and  philosophic  comprehension  which 
would  have  coursed  well  in  any  harness  of  literature.  Boston 
should  be  proud  of  such  an  Essayist  among  her  merchants. 


GEORGE  P,  MORRIS,  THE  SONG  WRITER, 

[THE  following  letter  was  written  to  Mr.  Graham,  in  compliance  with  a 
request  for  a  written  sketch  of  Morris,  (the  author's  partner  in  the  editorship 
of  the  Home  Journal)  to  accompany  a  portrait  of  him,  published  in  Graham's 
izine : — ] 


MY  DEAR  SIR  : — To  ask  me  for  my  idea  of  Morris,  is 
like  asking  the  left  hand's  opinion  of  the  dexterity  of  the  right. 
I  have  lived  so  long  with  the  "  Brigadier" — known  him  so 
intimately — worked  so  constantly  at  the  same  rope,  and  thought 
so  little  of  ever  separating  from  him,  (except  by  precedence  of 
ferriage  over  the  Styx,)  that  it  is  hard  to  shove  him  from  me  to 
the  perspective  distance — hard  to  shut  my  own  partial  eyes  and 
look  at  him  through  other  people's.  I  will  try,  however,  and,  as 
it  is  done  with  but  one  foot  off  from  the  treadmill  of  my  ceaseless 
vocation,  you  will  excuse  both  abruptness  and  brevity. 

Morris  is  the  best  known  poet  of  the  country,  by  acclamation, 
not  by  criticism.  He  is  just  what  poets  would  be  if  they  sang, 
like  birds,  without  criticism ;  and  it  is  a  peculiarity  t)f  his  fame, 
that  it  seems  as  regardless  of  criticism,  as  a  bird  in  the  air. 
Nothing  can  stop  a  song  of  his.  It  is  very  easy  to  say  that  they 


254  HEART-LEVEL. 

are  easy  to  do.  They  have  a  momentum,  somehow,  that  is 
difficult  for  others  to  give,  and  that  speeds  them  to  the  far  gaol 
of  popularity — the  best  proof  consisting  in  the  fact,  that  he  can, 
at  any  moment,  get  fifty  dollars  for  a  song  unread,  when  the 
whole  remainder  of  the  American  Parnassus  could  not  sell  one  to 
the  same  buyer  for  a  shilling. 

It  may,  or  may  not,  be  one  secret  of  his  popularity,  but  it  is 
the  truth — that  Morris's  heart  is  at  the  level  of  most  other 
people's  and  his  poetry  flows  out  by  that  door.  He  stands 
breast-high  in  the  common  stream  of  sympathy,  and  the  fine  oil 
of  his  poetic  feeling  goes  from  him  upon  an  element  it  is  its 
nature  to  float  upon,  and  which  carries  it  safe  to  other  bosoms, 
with  little  need  of  deep  diving  or  high-flying.  His  sentiments  are 
simple,  honest,  truthful  and  familiar ;  his  language  is  pure  and 
eminently  musical,  and  he  is  prodigally  full  of  the  poetry  of 
every-day  feeling.  These  are  days  when  poets  try  experiments  ; 
and,  while  others  succeed  by  taking  the  world's  breath  away  with 
flights  and  plunges,  Morris  uses  his  feet  to  walk  quietly  with 
Nature.  Ninety-nine  people  in  a  hundred,  taken  as  they  come  in 
the  census,  would  find  more  to  admire  in  Morris's  songs  than  in 
the  writings  of  any  other  American  poet ;  and  that  is  a  parish,  in 
the  poetical  episcopate,  well  worthy  a  wise  man's  nurture  and 
prizing. 

As  to  the  man — Morris,  my  friend — I  can  hardly  venture  to 
"  burn  incense  on  his  moustache,"  as  the  French  say — write  his 
praises  under  his  very  nose — but,  as  far  off  as  Philadelphia,  you 
may  pay  the  proper  tribute  to  his  loyal  nature  and  manly 
excellences.  His  personal  qualities  have  made  him  universally 
popular,  but  this  overflow  upon  the  world  does  not  impoverish 


MORRIS. 


him  for  his  friends.     I  have  outlined  a  true  poet,  and  a  fine 
fellow — fill  up  the  picture  to  your  liking. 

Yours,  very  truly, 

N.  P.  WILLIS. 
Q-EO.  R.  GRAHAM,  ESQ. 


IRVING, 

WE  spoke,  the  other  day,  of  Geoffrey  Crayon's  having  once 
more  consented  to  sit  for  his  picture.  Mr.  Martin  has  just 
finished  it,  and  we  fancy  there  has  seldom  been  a  more  felicitous 
piece  of  work.  It  is  not  only  like  Irving,  but  like  his  books — 
and,  though  he  looks  as  his  books  read,  (which  is  true  of  few 
authors) — and  looks  like  the  name  of  his  cottage,  Sunnyside — 
and  looks  like  what  the  world  thinks  of  him — yet  a  painter  might 
have  missed  this  look,  and  still  have  made  what  many  would 
consider  a  likeness.  He  sits,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand,  with 
the  genial,  unconscious,  courtly  composure  of  expression  that  he 
habitually  wears,  and  still  there  is  visible  the  couchant  humour 
and  philosophical  inevitableness  of  perception,  which  form  the 
strong  under-current  of  his  genius.  The  happy  temper  and  the 
strong  intellect  of  Irving — the  joyously  indolent  man  and  the 
arousably  brilliant  author — are  both  there.  As  a  picture,  it  is  a 
fine  specimen  of  Art.  The  flesh  is  most  skilfully  crayoned,  the 
pose  excellent,  the  drawing  apparently  effortless  and  yet  nicely 
true,  and  the  air  altogether  Irving-y  and  gentlemanlike.  If  well 
engraved,  we  have  him — delightful  and  famous  Geoffrey — as  he 
lives,  as  he  is  thought  to  live,  as  he  writes,  as  he  talks,  and  as  he 
ought  to  be  remembered 


JENNY  LIND, 

THERE  is  great  competition  to  be  the  painter  of  Jenny  Lind. 
Mr.  Barnum,  we  understand,  has  engaged  a  portrait  for  his 
palace  of  Iranistan,  and  we  are  permitted  to  mention  only  the 
fact — not  the  artist.  The  applications  are  numerous  for  the 
honour  of  limning  her  admired  countenance.  We  should  sup 
pose  Garbeille  might  make  a  charming  statuette  of  Jenny  Lind 
curtsying.  It  is  then  that  she  is  most  unlike  anybody  else,  and, 
where  character  is  to  be  seized,  Garbeille  is  the  master.  George 
Flagg  is  admirable  at  cabinet  portraits,  (half  the  size  of  life,)  and 
has  lately  finished  one  of  Fanny  Kemble,  which  is  a  superb  piece 
of  design  and  colour.  He  would  paint  her  well. 

It  seems  to  us  that  no  one,  of  the  dozen  engravings  purporting 
to  represent  Jenny  Lind,  has  any  reasonable  likeness  to  her,  as 
we  have  seen  her.  And,  indeed,  the  longer  we  live,  the  more  we 
are  convinced  that  people  see  the  same  features  very  differently, 
and  that  one  face  may  make  two  as  different  impressions  on  two 
beholders,  as  if  they  had  been  all  the  while  looking  on  two  differ 
ent  faces.  To  our  notion,  Jenny  Lind  has  never  been  painted 
truly.  We  have  seen  fifty  likenesses  of  her — in  Germany,  France, 
England,  and  Nassau  street — and  the  picture  in  our  mind's  eye 
is  the  likeness  of  quite  another  woman. 


258  LIKENESSES    OF   JENNY    LIND. 


The  truth  is,  that  G-od  never  yet  lit  the  flame  of  a  great  soul  in 
a  dark  lantern  ;  and,  though  the  divine  lamp  burning  within 
Jenny  Lind  may  not  be  translucent  to  all  eyes,  it  is,  to  others, 
perfectly  visible  through  the  simple  windows  of  her  honest  face, 
and  could  be  painted — by  any  artist  who  could  see  past  the  putty 
on  the  sash.  Her  living  features  seem  to  us  illuminated  with  an 
expression  of  honest  greatness,  sublimely  simple  and  unconscious, 
and  in  no  picture  of  her  do  we  see  any  trace  of  this.  It  is  a  face, 
to  our  eye,  of  singular  beauty — beauty  that  goes  past  one's  eye 
and  is  recognized  within — and  the  pictures  of  her  represent  the 
plainest  of  common-place  girls.  Why,  a  carpenter's  estimate, 
with  the  inches  of  her  nose,  cheeks,  lips  and  eyes,  all  cyphered 
up  on  a  shingle,  would  be  as  true  a  likeness  of  her  as  most  of 
these  engravings.  Have  we  no  American  artist  who  can  give  us 
Jenny  Lind's  face  with  its  expression  ? 

*=#**#*###* 

We  were  pained  to  see,  when  the  fair  songstress  came  forward 
to  the  lights,  that  her  fatigues,  for  the  past  two  or  three  weeks, 
had  made  their  mark  upon  her.  She  looked  pale  and  worn,  and 
her  step  and  air  were  saddened  and  un-elastic.  This  continued, 
even  to  the  end  of  her  second  performance,  and  we  began  to  have 
apprehensions  that  she  was  too  indisposed  to  be  equal  to  her  eve 
ning's  task.  But,  with  the  cavatina  from  the  Somnambula,  the 
inspiration  came.  She  sang  it  newly,  to  our  ear.  It  seemed  as 
if  she  had,  heretofore,  sung  always  with  a  reserve  of  power.  This 
was  the  first  time  that  she  had  seemed  (to  us)  to  give  in  to  the 
character,  and  allow  her  soul  to  pour  its  impassioned  tenderness 
fully  upon  the  dramatic  burthen  of  the  music.  Could  any  one, 
who  heard  that  overpowering  flood  of  heart-utterance,  (convey 
ing  the  mournfulness  of  a  wrongfully  accused  woman,  singing  in 


SYMPATHY  IN  PERSONATION.  359 


her  dream,)  doubt,  afterwards,  the  fervor  and  intensity  of  the 
nature  of  Jenny  Lind  ?  More  eloquent  and  passionate  sounds 
came  never  from  human  lips,  we  are  well  persuaded.  If  she 
ever  lacks  in  the  "  passioiiateness"  called  for  by  Italian  music,  or 
suffers  by  comparison  with  Grisi  and  others  in  this  respect,  we 
shall  believe,  hereafter,  that  it  is  only  because  she  cannot  consent 
to  embark  passionateness  on  the  tide  of  the  character  she  repre 
sents.  A  Lucrezia  Borgia's  "  passion,"  for  example,  she  would 
not  portray  with  a  full  abandonment — a  Somnambula's,  she 
would.  Her  capability  of  expressing  feeling — pure  feeling — 
to  its  uttermost  depth  and  elevation,  is  beyond  cavil,  it  seems 
to  us. 

We  found,  after  Jenny  Lind  had  gone  from  the  city,  on  her 
first  visit,  that  we  retained  no  definite  remembrance  of  her  fea 
tures.  We  had  nothing  by  which  we  could  assure  ourselves 
whether  one  likeness  was  more  true  than  another  ;  and,  indeed, 
no  one  of  them — not  even  a  daguerreotype — was  reasonably  like 
our  fating  of  what  a  likeness  should  be.  "We  determined,  this 
time,  first  to  study  the  lineaments,  by  themselves,  and  then,  if 
possible,  to  see  how  so  marvellous  a  transformation  was  brought 
about,  as  is  necessary  to  present  to  the  eye  her  frequent  looks  of 
inspiration  and  even  of  exalted  beauty.  Our  close  scrutiny  satis 
fied  us,  that  it  is  only  by  looking  at  her  features  separately,  that 
any  degree  of  truthfulness  can  be  found  in  the  daguerreotype 
likenesses  which  have  been  published.  The  entire  look,  taken  in 
connection  with  the  rest  of  her  figure,  though  she  only  stands  be 
fore  the  audience  waiting  the  completion  of  the  prelude  to  her 
song,  represents  a  totally  different  image  from  the  one  your 
mind  has  received  by  looking  at  her  picture.  It  is  fortunate  that 
it  is  so — careless  as  she  is  about  letting  any  body  picture  her,  as 


260  GENIUS    AND    NATURE. 


lie  pleases.  She  comes  to  every  eye  with  a  new  impression.  All 
the  engravings  in  the  world  do  not  anticipate,  for  you,  any  portion 
of  the  novelty  of  a  first  sight  of  her.  So,  as  long  as  she  sings, 
there  will  be  no  exhaustion  to  the  freshness  of  her  impression 
upon  audiences. 

Heavy  as  Jenny  Lind's  features  are,  there  is  no  superfluity,  in 
repose,  which  does  not  turn  out  to  have  been  very  necessary  to 
the  expression  in  excitement.  That  so  massive  a  nose  can  havo 
the  play  of  the  thin  nostrils  of  a  race-horse,  is  one  of  the  start 
ling  discoveries  you  make,  in  watching  her  as  she  sings.  Her 
eyes  are,  perhaps,  beautiful  at  all  times — and  it  struck  us  as  their 
peculiarity  that  they  never  become  staggered  with  her  excite 
ment.  From  the  highest  pitch  of  rapt  bewilderment  for  the 
listener,  those  large  steadfast  eyes  return  to  their  serene,  lambent, 
fearless  earnestness — as  if  there  sat  the  angel  intrusted  with  the 
ministry  she  is  exercising,  and  heaven  lay  in  calm  remembrance 
behind  them.  And  the  same  rallying  power  is  observable  in  the 
action  of  the  under  lip,  which  contorts  with  all  the  pliability  and 
varying  beauty  of  the  mouth  of  the  Tragic  Muse,  and,  from  its 
expressive  curves,  resumes  its  dignity  of  repose,  with  an  ease  and 
apparent  unconsciousness  of  observation  that  is  well  worthy  of 
study  by  player  or  sculptor.  It  is  curious,  how,  in  all  the 
inspired  changes  of  this  mobile  physiognomy,  its  leading  im 
print,  of  an  utter  simplicity  of  goodness,  is  never  lost.  She 
does  not  sublimate  away  from  it.  Through  the  angel  of  rapt 
music,  as  through  the  giver  of  queenly  bounties,  is  seen  honest 
Jenny  Lind.  She  looks  forever  true  to  the  ideal  for  which  the 
world  of  common  hearts  has  consented  to  love  her. 


SOCIETY. 


FASHION  AND  INTELLECT  IN  NEW  YORK, 

How  to  add  the  genius  of  New  York  to  the  society  which  exer 
cises  its  gayeties  and  hospitalities ,  is  a  problem,  to  the  solution  of 
which,  as  our  readers  know,  we  have  once  or  twice  put  out  pre 
paratory  feelers.  Knowing,  as  we  do,  that  there  is,  resident  in 
New  York,  material  for  as  intellectual,  sparkling  and  brilliant  a 
society  as  exists  in  the  world — and  that  this  material  is  wholly 
unsought,  and  almost  wholly  unrepresented,  in  the  circles  most 
courted  by  inhabitants  and  most  seen  by  strangers — we  feel  as  if 
the  excellent  stones,  which  worthily  form  the  base  of  high  civiliza 
tion,  were  being  forgetfully  continued  into  the  superstructure ; 
and  that  it  is  time  to  suggest  the  want,  of  such  as  are  chiselled,  to 
carry  out  the  upper  design  of  social  architecture — to  build  fitly 
into  its  columns,  and  point  its  pinnacles  and  arches. 

New  York  (we  mention  it  as  a  matter  of  news)  is  rich  in  delight 
ful  people.  What  we  mean  by  "  delightful  people"  cannot  well  be 
conveyed  in  one  definition  ;  but  they  may  be  loosely  described  as 
those  who  think  new  as  they  talk,  and  do  not  talk  stale  as  they 
echo  or  remember.  There  are  such  in  all  professions — merchants, 
who  slip  Wall  street  from  their  tongues  and  faces  as  they  pass 
Bleecker,  going  home — lawyers  who  put  on  and  take  off  'cuteness 


264  POCKET   ARISTOCRACY. 


and  suspiciousness  with  their  office-coat — politicians  whose  minds, 
though  only  one-eared  for  politics,  will  open  both  ears  to  any 
thing  else — fresh-minded  and  thought-recognizing  men,  of  every 
kind  of  business — but  they  are  rather  less  than  more  valued  by 
their  own  sex  for  being  thus  much  u  above  their  business,"  and 
there  is  no  recompensing  preference  of  them  (shall  we  say  it  ?)  by 
the  society  standards  of  our  "  fashionable  women."  They  are  a 
kind  of  men,  too,  who  will  go  no-where  "  through  a  stooping 
door,"  and  whom  Society  must  seek.  Consequently — like  the 
classes  formed  altogether  by  predominance  in  intellectual  qualities 
— they  are  "  not  in  society." 

We  refer,  in  this  last  sentence,  to  those  whose  success  (in  their 
pursuit  for  a  livelihood)  depends  on  being  more  gifted  than  other 
men  with  the  rarer  and  higher  faculties  of  the  mind — artists, 
authors,  journalists,  architects,  professional  scholars,  and  musical 
and  dramatic  celebrities.  There  are  enough  of  these,  at  any  one 
time,  in  New  York,  to  furnish  every  party  that  is  given — every 
circle  that  meets,  in  any  shape — with  its  fair,  or  European,  pro 
portion  of  taste  and  intellect.  But,  the  fashionable  world  is 
almost  entirely  without  "  this  little  variety"  of  citizen — for, 
artists,  authors,  journalists,  "stars,"  and  that  sort  of  people,  (as 
any  young  lady  with  a  two-thousand-dollar  necklace  will  tell  you) 
are  "  not  in  society." 

It  is  not  that  the  door  is  shut  very  tight,  by  the  Pocket  Aristoc 
racy,  against  these  aristocrats  of  the  brain,  but  various  small 
causes  combine  to  keep  it  closed.  The  master  of  a  new-made 
fortune,  for  instance,  is  very  apt  to  feel,  like  Milton's  Satan,  that 

it  is 

"  Better  to  rule  in  Hell  than  serve  in  Heaven," 

and  he  willingly  invites  no  class  of  persons  to  his  house,  by  whom 


BRAIN  AND  MONEY.  265 

bis  ostentation  will  be  undervalued,  or  whose  critical  eyes  will  be 
likely  to  see  a  want  of  harmony  between  house  and  owner.  The 
mistress  of  a  fashionable  house,  on  the  other  hand,  is  by  no 
means  sure  enough  of  her  position  to  run  any  risks ;  and,  though 
she  is  educated,  as  her  husband  is  not,  and  would  very  much  pre 
fer  an  intellectual  man  as  a  chance  companion  in  a  stage-coach, 
she  cannot  venture  to  dull  the  "  stylish  air"  of  her  party  by  the 
presence  of  any  one  ill-drest — any  one  that  the  dandies  might 
mention  slightingly  as  one  of  "  the  sort  of  people  that  were  there" 
— nor  any  one  who  does  not  visit  certain  families  to  whose  level 
she  aspires.  The  unmarried  daughters  are  very  young,  and,  if 
they  have  any  voice  in  the  matter,  they  prefer  the  best-gloved, 
best  waltzing-partners,  and  the  beaux  who  are  likeliest  to  "  have 
a  team  of  their  own"  at  Newport  or  Saratoga. 

These*,  and  twenty  other  reasons,  prevent  intellectual  men  from 
being  sought  by  the  recognized  Upper  Society  of  New  York  ; 
and,  as  Intellect  keeps  modestly  back — partly  from  being  able, 
usually,  to  make  no  return  of  hospitality,  and  partly  from  having 
too  much  pride  to  run  any  hazard  of  mortification — they  will  not 
seek  it,  as  Vulgarity  will ;  and  the  chances  are,  that  the  two 
Aristocracies  of  Brain  and  Pocket  will  not,  by  any  "  natural 
course  of  things,"  come  together,  in  this  our  day  and  generation. 

Of  the  two  sides  of  a  door,  the  comparative  pleasantness  is,  of 
course,  a  matter  of  opinion  ;  and  the  outside  of  a  coarse  mil 
lionaire's  would  be  easily  voted,  by  intellectual  men,  that  of  the 
best  society,  but  that  charming  women,  divine  music,  costly 
flowers  and  lights,  pictures  and  statuary,  are  on  the  inside,  with 
the  Money.  There  is  no  doubt,  therefore,  in  the  mind  of  any 
man  of  sense,  that  the  inside  of  a  rich  man's  door  is  desirable, 
whether  he  is,  or  is  not,  himself,  the  drawback  to  its  agreeable- 
12 


266  PARISIAN  REMEDY. 


ness.  It  is  an  object,  we  presume,  quite  worthy  of  advocacy  in 
print,  to  bring  about  a  freedom  of  the  halls  of  Croasus  to  Intellect ; 
to  open  the  enchantments  of  Wealth — the  treasures  of  Art  which 
it  collects,  the  music  and  perfume  which  it  buys,  and  the  beauty, 
grace  and  polish  which  it  brings  together — to  the  class  which,  of 
these  luxuries,  has,  a  thousand-fold,  the  highest  appreciation. 
This  has  been  done  in  other  countries.  It  should  be  done  in 
America — though,  in  our  kaleidoscope  reverses  and  somersets  of 
position,  the  proper  influence  must  be  brought  perpetually  to  bear 
on  men  of  new-made  respectability  and  fortunes.  But,  let  us 
venture  to  suggest  an  idea  for  the  quicker  pose  of  the  wanting 
figure  of  Intellect  upon  our  statue-less  pedestal  of  Wealth. 

Till  the  society  of  men  and  women  of  talent  is  more  attractive 
than  its  own — or,  at  least,  till  they  have  graces  and  attractions, 
among  themselves,  that  it  would  willingly  borrow — Fashion  will 
never  trouble  itself  to  seek  guests  among  those  superior  to  itself 
by  nature.  What  we  want  is  what  they  have  in  Paris — 
a  society  separate  from  fashion — the  admission  to  which  would 
be  a  compliment  to  the  quality  of  a  man — which  would  give 
its  entertainments  with  humbler  surroundings,  but  with  wit, 
sparkle  and  zest  unknown  to  the  japonicas  and  diamonds — a 
freer  society  as  to  etiquette  and  dress — and  a  circle  of  which 
the  power  to  contribute  to  its  pleasure  and  brilliancy  would  be 
the  otherwise  un-catechised  pass.  Vice  and  vicious  people  need 
not  necessarily  belong  to  this  circle,  as  they  do,  possibly,  to  the 
"  artistic  circles"  of  Paris.  Though  the  manners  are  freer  in 
these  entertainments  than  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  titled  society, 
there  is  nothing  which  could  offend  propriety  ;  and  gayety,  by 
this  freedom,  is  but  stripped  of  its  unmeaning  trammels.  As  we 
said  before,  New  York  is  rich  in  delightful  people — just  the  peo- 


SOCIETY    IN    INDIVIDUALS.  267 


pie  for  the  formation  of  a  rival  aristocracy  of  mind.  There  are 
beautiful,  accomplished  and  gifted  women,  who  are  known  singly 
to  artists  and  authors,  journalists  and  scholars ;  and  who  would 
come  where  they  might  meet  these  fresh-minded  men — women 
who,  at  present,  have  no  sphere  in  which  they  can  shine,  but  who 
are  as  capable,  perhaps,  as-  the  most  brilliant  belles  of  society,  of 
the  charming  interchanges  for  which  the  sex  is  worshipped. 
There  are  dramatic  artists,  musical  stars,  foreigners  of  taste  look 
ing  for  a  society  of  mind,  critics,  poets  and  strangers  of  eminence 
from  other  cities — all  of  whom  might  combine  with  the  superior 
men  among  our  lawyers,  merchants  and  politicians,  and  form  a 
new  level  of  intercourse,  of  which  New  York  is  at  this  moment 
capable,  and  which  would  soon  compare  favorably,  in  interest 
and  excitement,  with  the  most  fascinating  circles  abroad. 

To  such  an  arena  for  mind,  taste  and  beauty  only — we  repeat — 
Fashion  would  soon  come  and  beg  to  "  splinter  a  lance,"  and  thus, 
ly  rivalry  and  not  ly  favor  ^  might  the  door  of  Wealth  be  thrown 
open  to  those  superior  by  nature. 


WANT  OF  MARRIED  BELLES  IN  AMERICAN  SOCIETY, 

Duke. — "  For  women  are  as  roses,  whose  fair  flower 

Being  once  displayed,  doth  fall  that  very  hour. 

Viola. — "  And  so  they  are :  alas  that  it  is  so — 

To  die  ev'n  when  they  to  perfection  grow !" 

Twelfth  Night. 

LET  us  shape  out  a  similitude  to  outline  first,  a  little,  what  we 
have  to  say  : — 

Our  entrance  to  this  life  and  our  entrance  to  the  next,  are  the 
dawns  of  two  successive  mornings  of  the  days  of  eternity.  Our 
forenoon  is  childhood  ;  our  noon  brings  us  to  adult  completeness  ; 
our  afternoon  and  sunset  are  the  enjoyment  of  the  ripening  of  fore 
gone  hours ;  our  evening  is  the  thoughtful  and  willing  relinquish- 
ment  of  glaring  day,  the  loss  of  which  is  compensated  by  the 
fainter  and  purer  lights  which  beckon  with  twinkles  from  the  sky 
above  us ;  and  our  midnight  and  darkest  hour  is  the  old  age  in 
which  we  wait  for  another  morning. 

But  these  portions  of  our  day  of  life  are  capable,  to  a  certain 
extent,  of  differing  in  their  distribution  of  enjoyment — as  the  dis- 


MARRIED    PRIVILEGES.  269 


tribution  of  light  in  the  common  day  differs,  with  climate  and 
atmospheric  changes.  Leaving,  to  the  fancy  of  the  reader,  the 
tracing  out  of  other  obvious  analogies — (how,  for  instance,  a 
morning  of  lowering  sky  will  protract  the  forenoon's  ripening,  and 
how  clouds  may  hasten  our  evening  and  hide  the  stars  from  our 
lengthened  midnight) — let  us  select  the  common  phenomenon  of 
a  November  day  in  London,  when  there  is  no  daylight  till  an  hour 
before  noon,  and  when,  an  hour  after  noon,  the  lamps  are  lit  and 
night  prematurely  commences.  For,  this  corresponds,  with  curi 
ous  truthfulness,  we  think,  to  the  duration  of  the  afternoon,  (or 
period  of  active  enjoyment,)  in  the  day  of  female  life  in  America. 
Poetry  aside,  the  cultivated  woman  is  put  earlier  "  on  the 
shelf,"  in  this  country,  than  in  any  other — obliged  by  public  opin 
ion,  that  is  to  say,  to  give  up,  soon  after  the  birth  of  a  first  child, 
all  active  participation  in  society,  and  devote  herself  to  the  cares 
of  her  nursery,  or  (in  addition,)  to  such  ostentations  of  dress  and 
establishment  as  may  be  prompted  by  the  necessities  or  vanities 
of  the  family  position  or  ambition.  Display  and  the  domestic 
virtues,  in  fact,  are  all  a  woman  has  to  choose  from,  who  wishes 
to  pass,  in  common  acceptation,  for  u  an  exemplary  wife." 

But  does  not  woman,  at  any  age  when  she  can  exercise  it,  owe 
a  share  of  her  time,  attention,  and  influence,  to  general  society  ? 
Or,  if  she  has  no  social  duties  (out  of  her  own  family,)  has  she  not 
social  privileges,  if  she  chooses  to  avail  herself  of  them  ?  May 
not  a  married  woman,  consistently  with  all  her  obligations  to  hus 
band  and  children,  be  an  object  of  attention  and  attraction  to  a 
well  chosen  circle  of  acquaintance — shining  by  h«r  powers  of  con 
versation,  her  elegance  and  her  powers  of  pleasing  ?  Is  it  not 
important  to  daughters,  that  their  mothers  should  go  into  society 
with  them,  as  companions — share  in  their  gayeties  and  in  the  ad- 


270  WOMAN'S    SWEETEST    AGE. 


miration  they  excite — be  intimate  with  their  intimates — sympa 
thetic  enough  with  girlish  tastes  and  interests,  to  be  their  confi 
dants  and  advisers  ? 

The  most  delightful  age  of  woman,  in  cultivated  society,  is  be 
tween  the  noon  and  the  evening  of  her  life — when  her  attentive- 
ness  of  mind  is  calm  ;  when  her  discriminations  are  rational ; 
when  her  self-approbation  knows  what  it  receives,  and  her  prefer 
ence  knows  what  it  bestows  ;  when  she  is  wise  enough  to  be  an 
adviser  and  counsellor  to  a  male  friend,  and  yet  attractive  enough 
to  awaken  no  less  respect  than  admiration.  It  is  this  most  charm 
ing  and  most  partake-able  period  of  a  woman's  life  that  is  lost  to 
American  society.  The  exchange  of  thought  and  feeling,  in 
fashionable  circles,  is  carried  on,  on  the  female  side,  by  girls,  with 
only  school  knowledge  and  their  natural  instincts  to  guide  them  ; 
while  the  mothers,  (who  should  be  the  inseparable  stems  and 
leaves  of  these  half-blown  flowers,)  are  at  home,  limiting  their 
completed  powers  to  the  cares  which  a  nursery-maid  would  do  as 
well,  or  appearing  occasionally  at  a  large  party,  to  sit,  unattended 
to,  against  the  wall.  The  general  tone  of  society — its  tastes, 
judgments,  partialities  and  prejudices — are.  shaped  and  colored 
accordingly.  Bread-and-butter  standards  prevail.  An  intelli 
gent  foreigner,  who  was  taken  to  a  stylish  party  in  New  York,  on 
his  first  arrival,  and  introduced  to  the  leading  beaux  and  belles, 
is  said  to  have  remarked,  toward  the  close  of  the  evening : — 
"  Charming  children  !  but  where  are  the  grown-up  people  ?" 

It  is  the  men,  however,  who  lose  most  by  this  post-nuptial 
"taking  of  the  veil."  The  majority  of  youths  admire  without 
choosing.  They  pay  attention  where  it  is  expected,  or  encouraged. 
Not  one  in  a  thousand  has  a  mind  or  taste  of  his  own,  or  would 
venture  to  show  any  natural  instinct  of  preference,  unsupported 


MARRIED    FRIENDS.  271 


by  the  attention  of  others  to  the  same  object.  For  an  hour  of 
mere  conversation  at  a  party,  or  the  exchanging  of  sentiment  in 
a  rational  friendship  with  a  superior  woman,  there  is  little  or  no 
taste.  But  it  might  be  otherwise.  It  might  be  "  the  fashion" 
for  young  men  to  have  married  friends  as  well  as  dancing  part 
ners — to  value  talking  with  lovely  and  thoughtful  mothers  as  well 
as  flirting  with  pretty  and  giddy  daughters — to  admire  and  ap 
preciate  the  sex,  in  its  ripeness  and  completeness,  as  well  as  in 
its  immaturity  and  thoughtlessness.  This  would  easily  be  brought 
about,  if  cultivated  middle-aged  women  would  dress  and  go  to 
parties  to  phase  and  to  be  admired — the  refined,  among  middle- 
aged  men,  of  course  coming  out  from  their  retirement,  (when  there 
was  anything  to  come  for,)  and  society  thus  gaming  two  varieties 
of  contribiitors  to  its  gaiety — varieties,  besides,  which,  in  other 
and  older  countries,  are  prized  as  giving  a  brilliant  circle  all  its 
value.  What  the  effect  of  this  new  two-fold  admixture  would  be, 
on  the  tone  of  the  general  polite  intercourse  of  New  York,  and 
especially  on  the  characters  of  young  men  and  young  women 
whose  minds  and  tastes  are  materially  influenced  by  what  they  en 
counter  in  society,  it  is  easy  for  the  most  casual  observer  to 
divine. 


SHOULD  MARRIED  LADIES  GO  INTO  SOCIETY  WITH 
THEIR  DAUGHTERS? 

ONE  or  two  of  our  gentlemen  subscribers  have  written  to  us 
rather  angrily,  and  several  newspapers  have  commented  sneeringly, 
upon  a  late  article  in  the  Home  Journal  expressing  a  wish  that 
American  married  ladies  would  go  more  into  society.  In  the 
spirit  in  which  the  guests  at  an  Athenian  table  threw  Diogenes  a 
bone  when  he  entered,  let  us  give  these  gentlemen  and  critics  an 
instance,  from  natural  history,  of  precisely  the  condition  of  male 
and  female  life  which  they  seem  to  think  desirable.  The  insect 
coccus,  (from  which  cochineal,  kermes,  lac-dye,  and  other  pigments 
are  made,)  is  thus  described  by  naturalists : — 

"  The  males  have  wings,  and,  having  no  care  for  food,  go  and  come  as  they 
please.  The  females  have  no  wings,  and  live  by  suction  of  plants  to  which 
they  fix  themselves  at  an  early  period  of  their  life  and  remain  immovable 
till  death.  When  impregnated,  they  spread  their  bodies  over  the  eggs,  and 
so  perish  into  a  membrane,  or  egg,  which  the  young  ones  break  through  and 
destroy,  in  coming  into  fife.'7 

It  seems  to  be  the  idea  of  the  Coccusians,  who  have  written  to 
us,  that  woman's  mission  is  fulfilled  by  dividing  her  time  between 


INSECT    COCCUS.  273 


her  nursery  and  her  husband.  We  would  publish  the  articles 
themselves,  if  they  contained  any  other  essential  opinion  ;  but 
they  do  not.  Let  us  look,  then,  for  a  moment,  at  the  operation 
and  influences  of  this  Coccusian  destiny  of  woman. 

A  lady  who  was  herself  married  at  seventeen,  has  a  daughter 
sixteen  years  of  age,  and  four  or  five  younger  children.  The 
girl  is  pretty,  has  given  up  school  and  takes  music  and  French 
lessons  at  home,  is  fast  maturing  in  figure  and  womanly  ways,  and 
begins  to  be  invited  to  parties  and  receive  calls.  Her  father  is 
all  day  at  his  counting-room,  and  so  tired  and  sleepy  in  the 
evening,  that,  if  he  has  no  business  engagement,  he  stretches 
himself  to  sleep  in  the  back  parlor,  or  goes  to  bed  early — leaving 
"  the  girls"  of  course  to  their  mother.  The  mother  lives  in  the 
nursery,  except  at  meal-times  or  when  engaged  in  household 
duties.  Her  rocking-chair  is  her  dwelling-place,  and  there  she 
sits  all  day,  sewing  upon  the  "  children's  things,"  or  tending  her 
baby,  or  talking  with  her  nurses — "  at  home"  to  no  one  except 
"  intimate  friends  who  can  come  up  stairs."  If  she  goes  out,  it 
is  to  get  into  a  carriage  and  "  do  up"  a  month's  calls  in  a  day,  or 
to  get  into  an  omnibus  and  "  get  through  with  the  family 
shopping."  Her  music,  which  she  acquired  at  a  cost  of  thou 
sands  of  dollars  and  years  of  practice,  she  gave  up,  after  the  birth 
of  her  first  baby.  She  has  no  time  to  read,  having  "  la !  more 
important  things  to  do  !"  and,  indeed,  with  the  incessant  calls 
upon  her  attention,  from  the  three  or  four  children  who  are  in  the 
same  room  with  her  for  twelve  hours  every  day,  she  lives  in  an 
eternal  fatigue  of  mind,  which  makes  it  impossible  for  her  to  give 
her  thoughts  to  two  pages  of  a  book  together.  She  "  does  her 
duty  to  her  children" — by  keeping  the  baby  out  of  the  fire, 
drilling  the  multiplication-table  into  the  youngest  but  one,  and 
12* 


274  NEGLECT    OF   DAUGHTERS. 


mending  his  trowsers,  overlooking  the  next  oldest  while  she 
learns  to  sew,  and  seeing  that  the  still  older  ones  go  to  school 
with  the  right  books  in  their  satchel,  turn  their  toes  out,  and 
remember  their  India-rubbers  in  wet  weather. 

But,  meantime,  the  eldest  daughter  claims  to  go  to  parties  like 
other  girls  of  her  age,  wants  a  companion  for  her  daily  walks, 
goes  to  the  exhibitions  and  galleries  with  young  men  who  "  have 
not  the  honor  of  her  mother's  acquaintance,"  has  the  parlors  all 
to  herself,  as  "  mother  is  not  dressed  and  is  up  stairs  with  the 
children,"  and,  in  short,  the  girl  of  sixteen  is  almost  entirely 
without  mental  or  moral  guidance.  She  is  mistress  of  her  own 
movements,  sent  to  parties  in  a  carriage  by  herself  because  "  pa 
does  not  like  ma  to  go  out  without  him,"  never  talks  to  father  or 
mother  of  the  books  she  reads  or  the  acquaintances  she  makes, 
and  passes  the  three  or  four  years,  when  her  perceptions  are 
newly  wakened  and  her  mind  and  heart  are  like  wax  in  their 
readiness  to  receive  impressions,  at  the  mercy  of  any  and  every 
chance  influence  that  may  come  in  her  way. 

With  due  deference  to  the  Coccusian  system,  we  think  this  is 
neglect  of  the  most  important  of  all  duties  toward  a  child. 
Nursery  duties  can  be  safely  delegated— the  maternal  duties,  to  a 
girl  just  ripening  to  a  woman,  can  not.  Uneducated  nurses,  at  a 
dollar  a  week,  can  tend  babies,  mend  children's  clothes,  keep  them 
out  of  mischief  and  teach  them  to  read  and  spell.  But  no  hired 
person  can  be  the  beloved  friend,  the  companion  in  walks,  the 
attendant  to  parties,  the  listener  to  new  sprung  thoughts,  the 
confidential  intimate  and  sharer  of  all  acquaintance,  as  a  mother 
can  be.  And,  to  fulfil  this  absolutely  holy  and  vital  duty  to  a 
beloved  daughter,  mothers  must  go  into  society  with  them,  and 
share  in  their  pursuits,  sympathies  and  excitements. 


AWKWARD    HONORS.  275 


We  have  spoken,  in  the  article  which  gave  offence  to  our 
Coccusian  friends,  of  the  duty  which  mature  and  cultivated 
women  owe  to  the  general  tone  and  standards  of  that  society  in 
which  their  daughters  mingle — a  duty  which  they  cannot  discharge 
without  going  into,  and  being  admired  and  influential  in,  that 
same  society.  Upon  this  point,  too,  all  the  writers  upon  Female 
Education  have  written,  and  we  should  only  repeat  in  discuss 
ing  it. 

There  is  often  an  unconfessed  moving-spring,  to  the  opposition 
of  a  good  thing,  and  we  will  close  with  venturing  a  little  guess  at 
the  possible  reason  why  husbands  like  their  wives  to  be  domestic 
and  nothing  else  :— Is  it,  perhaps,  that,  having  devoted  all  their 
youth  to  money-making,  and  all  their  manhood  to  amassing,  they 
have  not,  themselves,  the  culture  and  gentlemanly  ease  necessary 
to  enjoy  society,  and  prefer,  therefore,  that  their  wives  should 
grow  prematurely  old  as  well  as  they,  and  mope  with  them  at 
home— choosing,  in  fact,  that  the  daughters  of  the  family  should 
run  the  risk  of  motherless  companionship  and  gayety,  rather  than 
that  the  wife  should  receive,  in  a  daughter's  company,  the  refined 
pleasure  and  admiration  which  their  own  neglect  of  themselves 
has  made  them  incapable  of  sharing  ? 


USAGES  OF  SOCIETY, 

Ought  yonng  girls  to  be  left  by  mothers  to  themselves? — Should  those  who 
have  incomes  of  $5000  vie  with  those  who  have  $25000  ? — In  a  business 
country  should  socialities  commence  near  midnight,  and  end  near  morn 
ing? — Should  very  young  children  be  dressed  as  expensively  as  their 
mothers  ?  etc.,  etc. 

THE  sun,  without  an  atmosphere,  would  shine  no  more  than  a 
football,  philosophy  tells  us,  and  with  indefinitely  lesser  matters 
the  analogy  holds  good,  for — to  prove  it  by  an  instance — we  can 
estimate  the  value  of  what  appears  in  the  Home  Journal  by  the 
radiations  of  correspondence  which  immediately  run  threads  of 
responsive  and  encouraging  light  between  us  and  our  widely 
scattered  subscribers.  In  discussing  the  position  of  married  wo 
men  in  this  country,  and  the  relation  between  mothers  and 
daughters  as  to  influence  and  companionship,  we  have  drawn  out 
tlie  opinions,  on  these  subjects,  from  many  who  seemed  only 
waiting  for  some  such  hint  to  express  them  ;  and  these  form  most 
valuable  guidance,  it  will  at  once  be  seen,  as  to  our  own  selection 
of  subjects  and  the  manner  in  which  they  had  best  be  treated. 
With  thanks  to  all  who  have  written  to  us,  we  will  reply  to  one 
which  expresses  one  or  two  differences  of  opinion,  and  is  so  well 


GIRLHOOD.  277 


written,  withal,  that,  it  could  have  come  only  from  a  person  well 
worth  listening  to. 

The  only  point  in  which  our  correspondent  differs  from  us,  is 
the  importance  of  a  confidential  companionship  between  mother 
and  daughter. 

There  is  certainly  no  more  important  and  jealous  a  trust,  of  hu 
man  guardianship  and  management,  than  that  over  the  innocence 
and  well-being  of  girlhood.  Its  honor  and  purity,  its  grace  and 
happiness,  constitute  the  inner  sanctuary  of  every  family,  the 
watchful  pride  and  anxiety  of  every  brother,  the  father's  deepest 
stake  in  life's  chances  of  good  and  evil,  the  mother's  burthen  of 
prayer.  And  it  is  not  alone  that  girlhood  is,  of  all  human  phases 
of  existence,  the  loveliest  and  most  like  our  imaginations  of  life 
in  Heaven — the  fairest  to  look  upon  and  the  most  rewarding  to 
fondness  and  devotion.  There  is  a  deeper  as  well  as  more  inter 
ested  reason  for  sleepless  watchfulness  .over  its  completeness  and 
beauty,  viz  : — the  hallowed  duties  to  which  it  is  but  the  novitiate, 
the  type  which  it  is  to  hand  down,  of  itself  and  its  own  present 
nurture  and  development,  in  the  sacred  maternity  that  lies  be 
yond.  Without  defining  why,  every  one  feels  instinctively  this 
doubly  endeared  sacredness  of  girlhood.  Life  will  be  staked  in 
defence  of  it,  by  the  commonest  man,  ten  times  quicker  than  for 
any  other  interest  that  can  belong  to  him  ;  and,  in  its  many  in 
fluences,  upon  men's  pride,  upon  their  sense  of  beauty,  upon 
their  affection  and  their  instinctive  guardianship,  more  power  is 
exercised  by  tender  girlhood  than  by  any  other-  stage  of  human 
transition  or  any  combination  of  human  faculties.  It  is  not  care 
lessly,  therefore,  that  we  could  permit  ourselves  to  take  up  the 
question  of  what  system  of  care  and  education  is  best  for  this 
lovely  threshold-time  of  responsible  womanhood,  and,  in  express- 


278  MELTA    NYSCRIEM. 

ing  what  we  think  of  its  wants  and  interests,  we  must  record  a 
feeling  for  our  sponsor— that  the  more  we  see  of  life  the  more 
reverently  we  look  upon  our  common  obligations  toward  this  com 
paratively  passive  yet  loveliest  and  most  important  portion  of  hu 
man  existence. 

But  to  come  to  our  subject : — 

Whether  young  girls  should  be  left  to  dispose  of  their  own 
hearts,  is  not  the  point  upon  which  we  differ  from  our  corres 
pondent.  "War  to  the  knife"  against  all  who  would  cross  a 
true  love,  is,  we  take  it,  a  precept  of  the  religion  of  Nature. 
Few  will  dispute,  however,  that  a  choice  for  life  should  be  made 
with  all  attainable  appreciation  and  knowledge,  and  though,  ID 
an  Arcadian  state  of  things,  where  youths  and  maidens  tend  sheep 
together  from  sunrise  till  folding-time,  they  themselves,  unaided 
and  unadvised,  would  doubtless  be  competent  choosers,  this  same 
ornithological  simplicity  o£  pairing  becomes  less  advisable,  we  are 
inclined  to  think,  as  the  associations  of  the  parties  concerned  be 
come  less  primitive  and  more  "fashionable." 

Let  us  sketch  one,  as  a  copy  of  very  many  "  self-propelling" 
belle-ships — (trying,  first,  by  the  way,  to  choose  such  artificial 
names  that  we  shall  not  be  accused  of  describing  individuals.) 

Miss  Melta  Nyscriem  is  a  very  pretty  girl,  who  gave  up  a  long 
sash  for  a  buckle  in  front,  and  began  to  "  see  company,"  at 
seventeen.  Her  mother  has  had  nothing  to  do  with  her,  since 
she  left  boarding-school,  except  to  apply  to  papa  for  her  shop 
ping  money,  prescribe  for  her  when  she  has  a  cold,  and  see  that 
she  sleeps  late  enough  in  the  morning  to  make  up  for  being  out 
nearly  all  night  at  parties.  John  and  Jerusha,  the  two  servants 
who  tend  the  door  between  them,  have  strict  orders  to  let  in  none 
of  her  young  beaux  till  mamma,  who  is  "  never  dressed,"  has  had 


BELLES'    HABITS.  279 


time  to  get  up  stairs  after  the  bell  rings,  and  Miss  Melta  is  "  in," 
as  a  general  thing,  from  twelve  till  three,  and  from  four  till  seven. 
Mamma's  visit  to  the  kitchen  and  her  own  late  breakfast  in  the 
basement,  coming  off  at  about  the  same  hour,  there  is  a  some 
thing  like  a  daily  confidential  interview  between  them — the 
mother,  that  is  to  say,  hearing  what  the  daughter  chooses  to  tell, 
of  her  engagements  and  her  wants,  while  she,  as  mistress  of  the 
house,  examines  the  butcher's  bill  or  decides  whether  the  mutton 
shall  be  boiled  or  roasted.  This  is  the  last  the  young  lady  sees 
of  mamma  till  dinner  time  ;  and,  as  papa  dines  oftenest  down 
town,  and  as  she  is  out  walking  or  "  with  company  in  the  front 
parlor"  while  he  takes  his  early  tea  before  going  "  to  meet  the 
Committee,"  or  going  to  sleep,  they  sometimes  scarce  see  each 
other  from  Sunday  to  Sunday. 

Mrs.  N.  has  requested  her  daughter  to  "  keep  up  her  French," 
and  Miss  Melta  has  consented — to  let  her  Dictionary  and  Exer 
cises  lie  where  she  can  find  them  when  she  has  nothing  else  to  do. 
Melta  has  been  bidden,  also,  to  be  "  select"  in  her  acquaintances 
— which  she  is,  for  she  selects  them  herself.  At  every  party  she 
is  introduced  to  two  or  three  new  partners,  and  they  call,  of 
course.  John  is  told  to  let  any  one  in  who  asks  for  her  when  she 
is  at  home,  unless  Mr.  Kuhl  is  there,  or  Mr.  Cyphers,  or  Mr. 
Yon  Phule — these  gentlemen  being  acquaintances  whom  she 
likes  to  see  without  being  intruded  upon.  There  are  usually, 
from  two  to  five,  at  a  time,  whom  she  prefers,  and  to  one  she  is 
"  engaged" — that  is  to  say,  walks  with  him  in  Broadway,  takes 
his  arm  in  the  cross  streets,  or  in  the  evening,  wears  his  ring, 
given  in  exchange  for  a  lock  of  her  hair,  and  tells  him  all  her 
secrets.  Just  now  she  is  engaged  to  Mr.  Kuhl,  and  he  is  only 


280  TOPICS    OF    CONVERSATION. 


the  fourth  she  has  been  engaged  to,  in  the  year  and  a  half  since 
she  left  school. 

The  conversation  between  Miss  Nyscriem  and  her  favorite 
beaux  is  nine-tenths  occupied  with  the  pulling  to  pieces  of  rival 
belles  and  beaux,  and  the  remaining  tenth  is  equally  divided  be 
tween  his  Club,  her  prospective  new  bonnet,  reasons  for  admiring 
each  other,  and  "  who  is  engaged."  He  finds,  that  the  more  per 
sonal  news  he  can  bring  the  pleasanter  is  his  call,  and  she  finds,  that, 
between  her  dress-maker  and  a  weekly  visit  to  the  Miss  Sniflins, 
she  can  pick  up  gossip  enough  about  the  "  goings-on,"  to  astonish 
up  the  conversation  whenever  it  seems  likely  to  flag.  New 
Operas,  new  books,  new  Galleries  and  Exhibitions,  are  dismissed 
with  one  phrase  if  mentioned  at  all,  and  the  only  practical  sub 
ject  dwelt  upon,  the  knowledge  of  which  can  possibly  furnish 
guide  or  example  for  their  own  future  destiny,  is  how  much  some 
couple,  lately  married,  are  worth,  and  how  they  can  possibly 
afford  to  pay  the  rent  of  the  house  they  have  gone  into. 

A  year  hence,  Miss  Melta  Nyscriem  will  be  nineteen.  She 
will  begin  to  find,  at  that  time,  that  the  number  of  her  flirtations 
is  getting  to  be  rather  an  uncomfortable  remembrance.  Partly 
from  not  having  been  guarded  against  the  evil  of  this  kind  of  ac 
cumulation,  and  partly  from  girlish  vanity,  she  will  have  fully 
paraded  all  her  conquests,  and  will  be  well  known  to  all  her 
female  acquaintance  as  having  been  "  engaged"  to  a  certain  num 
ber  of  gentlemen  who  have  since  flirted  very  happily  elsewhere. 
She  will  have  acquired,  also,  a  certain  uneasy  mistrust  of  malo 
and  female  constancy,  which  is  expressed  in  the  insincere  smile 
and  unconfiding  manners  that  infallibly  mark  a  flirt.  In  balls  and 
morning  calls  she  will  find  her  interest  lessening,  and,  if  she  could 
but  feel  sure  of  talking  well  enough,  she  would  like  to  make  a 


UNFORESEEN    RESULTS.  281 


change  in  the  character  of  her  gentlemen  acquaintances ;  but  that 
would  be  hard  to  do,  even  if  she  were  willing,  for  she  is  classified 
by  sensible  men  as  belonging  to  another  set.  Her  mother  has  no 
gentlemen  friends  upon  whom  she  might  safely  practise  a  new 
style  of  conversation  at  home,  and  would  only  be  vexed,  and  tell 
her  it  was  "  her  own  doing,"  if  she  were  to  confide  her  troubles 
to  her.  %  Just  arrived,  in  fact,  at  ati  age  when  she  could  first  form 
a  womanly  judgment,  and  choose  her  companions  with  a  taste 
that  would  hold  good,  she  will  find  that  her  choice  was  long  ago 
made,  and  that  the  position  and  character  which  should  now  be 
before  her,  are  already  fixed  and  stamped,  and  are  no  more  mat 
ters  of  choice. 

And  what  chance  has*  Miss  Melta  Nyscriem  to  marry,  either 
agreeably  to  herself  or  satisfactorily  to  her  parents  ?  A  refined 
young  man  shrinks  instinctively  from  the  thought  of  a  bride  who 
could  never  enter  society  without  recalling,  to  the  mind  of  every 
one, 'the  number  of  persons  in  the  room  to  whom  she  had  been 
previously  "  engaged."  Her  own  doubt,  whether  she  could  be 
agreeable  to  a  superior  man,  would  prevent  her  receiving  him 
graciously  or  appearing  to  the  advantage  of  which  she  might  be 
ambitious.  Resources  to  retire  upon,  in  the  hope  of  out-livin^ 
this  prematurely  chosen  position,  she  has  none. 

But  would  not  a  mother,  who  had  kept  her  own  place  in  society 
— who  had  friends  of  her  own,  youthful,  but  better  chosen — who, 
as  her  daughter's  intimate  companion,  would  have  imperceptibly 
trained  her  to  converse  with  persons  of  any  age,  like  a  girl  of 
sense,  while  she  prevented  her  from  cultivating  and  parading  the 
silly  and  useless  intimacies  which  are  so  enviously  remembered 
by  rivals — would  not  such  a  mother  have  marked  out  for  her, 
probably,  a  much  more  desirable  destiny  ?  With  the  earnest 


282  PREVENTION    BY  MOTHERS. 


wish  to  allow  to  a  young  girl  every  possible  freedom  of  choice, 
should  she  not  be  guarded  against  destroying  her  own  value  be 
fore  she  is  ready  t$  give  herself  away  ?  And  may  not  a  mother's 
experience  and  watchful  friendship,  train  and  keep  guard  over  a 
daughter,  at  that  incautious  age  of  life,  without  undue  interfer 
ence — without,  indeed,  any  hindrance  of  such  natural  selection 
for  intimacy  as  would  afterwards  be  pleasantly  remembered  ? 


SOCIETY  AND  MANNERS 

IN    NEW    YORK. 

Mobility  of  Fashionable  Usage  in  New  York — Depreciation  of  the  Social 
Value  of  Wealth — Exacted  Respectability  of  Acquisition — Necessity  of 
Ornamental  Acquaintance — Rising  Fashion  of  Stylish-looking  People. 

"WE  hardly  think  Americans  are  aware  of  the  kaleidoscope 
facility  with  which  usages  of  society  are  adopted  in  this  country — 
the  suddenness  with  which  changes  come  about — -the  ease  with 
which  prejudices  are  destroyed — the  alacrity  with  which  public 
opinion  takes  any  plausible  inoculation  of  improvement  or  novelty. 
Phenomenon  as  this  is,  in  the  history  of  Civilization,  however,  the 
explanation  of  it  is  very  simple.  Society,  in  all  European  coun 
tries,  is  the  simple,  indigenous  growth  of  many  centuries — a  tree 
carefully  nursed  and  guarded,  the  products  and  fruits  of  which 
were  sheltered  from  foreign  admixture,  and  affected  only  through 
root  and  soil.  Society  in  America,  on  the  contrary,  is  a  trans 
planted  stock,  with  no  proper  fruit  of  its  own,  though  of  no  prodi 
gal  fertility  ;  forbidden,  by  the  nature  of  our  institutions,  from 
being  formally  fenced  in  or  privileged,  but  lending  its  juices 
spontaneously  to  any  graft  that  may  be  inserted.  Comers  from 
all  nations  may  sit  in  the  shadow  of  it  with  equal  welcome.  A 


284  MOBILE    USAGES. 


usage  of  Europe  that  has  been  ages  in  maturing,  is  ingrafted  upon 
it  and  "bears  product  in  a  year,  or,  having  been  tasted  to  repletion, 
it  is  dropped  as  readily  and  superseded  by  another.  We  have  no 
national  opinions  on  the  disputed  points  of  society — no  prejudices 
— no  habits. 

It  will  be  understood,  at  once,  that  this  stage  "  of  easy  wax"  is 
natural  to  a  new  country,  peopled  by  large  simultaneous  immigra 
tions  from  every  nation  of  Europe,  and  that,  with  time  and  know 
ledge,  our  impressibility  will  harden,  and  we  shall  have,  like  older 
countries,  fixed  standards,  and  manners  no  more  easily  affected  by 
innovation.  It  is  meantime,  however,  that  opportunity  best  offers, 
for  suggestion  of  good  principles  and  remedy  of  evils  ;  and,  we 
seriously  believe  we  could  do  our  country  no  better  service,  in 
this  journal,  than  by  agitating  constantly  the  questions  of  relative 
social  value,  and  settling,  by  discussion,  as  perseveringly  and  sift- 
ingly  as  possible,  the  bearings  of  polite  usages  and  the  good  and 
evil  of  what  a  contemporary  disapprovingly  calls  "distinction 
of  classes." 

Let  us  call  attention,  for  the  moment,  to  a  change  in  New  York 
society  which  is  now  in  transition,  and  suggest  a  result  which  we 
are  hardly  sanguine  enough  to  anticipate,  though  it  is  very  de 
sirable. 

No  one  will  deny,  we  presume,  that  mere  wealth  has  lost  much 
of  its  value,  within  the  last  five  years,  as  a  passport  to  society. 
There  are,  at  this  moment,  rich  people,  by  scores,  waiting,  unad 
mitted,  at  the  door  of  Fashion — those,  too,  whose  houses,  carriages 
and  "  good"-ness  in  Wall  street,  would,  at  one  time,  have  been 
an  "open-sesame"  undisputed.  Wealth,  now,  above  an  easy 
competency,  only  suggests  the  additional  question  of  "  how  it  was 
made ;"  and,  without  a  satisfactory  answer  to  that,  the  blackball 


STYLE    IN   LOOKS.  285 

upon  a  new-comer's  advances  would  be  unanimous.  The  inquiry, 
however,  can  only  settle  the  point  that  the  wealth  is  no  objection  ; 
and  it  is  in  this  transition  of  wealth  from  a  very  positive  to  a 
merely  negative  consideration,  that  we  find  the  progress  to  which 
we  wished  to  call  the  attention  of  the  reader. 

The  necessity  of  having  an  ornamental  acquaintance,  is  a  feel 
ing  which  has,  of  late,  strengthened  very  perceptibly  in  the  higher 
circles  of  New  York,  and  this  opposes,  perhaps,  to  a  claimant  of 
fashion,  the  most  formidable  barrier.  How  Mrs.  Somebody,  who 
has  left  her  card,  will  grace  a  matinee  or  figure  at  a  ball,  is  the 
chief  speculation  which  decides  whether  the  visit  shall  be  returned 
at  all,  or  returned  promptly  or  laggardly — with  a  mere  card  or 
with  an  "  At  Home"  naming  a  weekly  day  of  reception.  It  is 
not  beauty  that  is  exacted — though  that  is  a  very  privileged  pass 
port — but  style.  To  look  well-bred  has  a  value  in  this  metropo 
lis,  at  present,  which  gives  more  social  rank  than  in  any  other 
capital  in  the  world.  And  it  is  not  surprising,  for,  where  there 
are  no  titles,  the  grounds  of  fashionable  estimation  vary  capri 
ciously — with  a  few  dazzling  examples,  or  with  rarity  or  over-use 
— and  "  old  families"  having  mostly  died  out  or  become  impover 
ished,  and  wealth  losing  its  value  by  frequency  and  vulgar  accom 
paniments,  the  "  premium"  has  fallen  very  naturally  upon  the  ex 
ternal  stamp  of  Nature.  It  is  a  well  understood  and  definite 
emulation,  with  those  who  receive,  to  have  the  most  distinguished- 
looking  group  at  a  matinee,  or  the  most  stylish  of  people  and 
dresses  at  an  evening  party. 

Advanced,  however,  as  this  stage  of  fashionable  estimation  is, 
beyond  a  merely  monied  aristocracy,  it  is  still  very  far  less 
rational,  less  refined  and  less  nobly  republican  than  the  standards 
that  prevail  in  some  of  the  choicer  societies  of  Europe.  In  our 


286  TWO-FOLD    EXCLUSIVENESS. 


next  Dumber  we  will  endeavor  to  sketch  one  or  two  circles  abroad, 
the  elevated  tone  and  feeling  of  which  are  the  slow  result  of  cen 
turies  of  progress,  but  which  we  trust  may  be  anticipatorily  at 
tained  by  the  overleaping  earnestness  of  our  country,  and  by  that 
unconceited  willingness  to  ledrn  which  puts  Americans  over  time  as 
electricity  puts  news  over  distance. 

The  circles  in  London,  the  access  to  which  is  generally  under 
stood  to  be  most  an  honor  and  privilege,  are  not  those  whose  en 
tertainments  and  guests  are  duly  chronicled  in  the  Morning  Post. 
The  Duke  of  Devonshire's,  the  Marquis  of  Lansdowne's,  the 
Duchess  of  Sutherland's,  and  two  or  three  other  houses  of  the 
nobility,  form  the  sphere  which  is  most  unexceptionable  for  rank, 
style,  and  fashionable  distinction.  Into  this,  entrance  may  be 
obtained  by  advantages  impersonal  and  accidental,  and  the  posi 
tion  thus  won  may  be  retained  by  the  same  tenure,  without  any 
contribution  to  the  brilliancy  or  agreeableness  of  the  evening's 
entertainment. 

There  is  another  sphere  in  London,  formed  of  perhaps  five  or 
six  houses,  to  which  many  have  free  access  who  would  never  be 
invited  to  the  entertainments  of  the  nobility ;  and  to  this  sphere, 
on  the  other  hand,  many  who  visit  freely  in  noble  circles  would 
with  dimculty  obtain  admittance.  Among  these  are  the  houses 
of  Hallam  the  historian,  Babbage  the  mathematician,  and  one  or 
two  other  gayer  receptions  than  these. 

To  this  level  of  London  society,  a  dandy  lord,  with  no  conver 
sation  but  that  of  second-hand  rote,  would  never  attain ;  nor  a 
titled  lady  who  was  merely  a  dashing  woman  of  fashion  ;  nor  any 
representative  of  money  and  nothing  else.  Strangers  and  foreign 
diplomatists  aside,  you  are  sure  that  every  other  guest  is  a  person 
of  mark — eminent  for  wit  or  powers  of  conversation,  interest  of 


INTELLECTUAL    STANDARDS.  287 


connection  or  distinction  of  personal  character,  beauty  or  grace, 
genius,  energy  or  adventure.  The  threshold  of  this  circle  is  care 
fully  guarded  against  folly  and  pretension,  but,  above  all,  against 
commonplaceness.  Aristocratic  it  is — but  the  aristocracy  is  of 
God's  endowing,  not  of  Mammon's  or  the  Queen's. 

There  is  a  great  difference  in  the  manner  in  which  these  differ 
ent  kinds  of  society  are  frequented.  At  a  ball  at  Lansdowne 
House  or  Devonshire  House,  the  guests  arrive  at  near  midnight, 
in  full  dress,  comply  with  all  that  ceremony  or  etiquette  can  re 
quire,  and,  if  they  wait  for  the  sumptuous  supper  at  two  or  three, 
usually  go  home  by  daylight.  To  these  magnificent  routs,  men 
of  rank  who  have  a  career  to  look  after,  such  as  Lord  John  Rus 
sell,  Lord  Brougham,  Sir  Robert  Peel,  or  ambitious  men  who 
guide  adventurous  intellects  by  collision  and  constant  comparison 
of  thoughts  with  other  minds,  look  in  for  half  an  hour,  or  are 
perhaps  only  seen  at  two  or  three  in  the  course  of  the  season. 
The  emulation  at  such  places  is  that  of  splendor  and  display, 
mainly,  and  acquaintance  with  the  current  gossip  of  Court  and 
fashion  is  more  available  than  any  other  coin  of  intercourse. 

To  the  choicer  intellectual  receptions  which  we  have  described, 
guests  go  earlier,  at  nine  or  ten,  and  they  commonly  separate  be 
fore  twelve.  Tea  is  usually  offered  in  the  cloak-room  as  you 
enter,  or  found  in  a  side-room,  presided  over  by  the  housekeeper, 
and,  except  the  ordinary  eatables  of  a  tea-table,  no  supper  is 
given.  The  least  possible  ceremony  is  observed.  The  eminent 
statesmen  come  up  from  the  session  of  Parliament  in  the  dress 
they  have  worn  all  day,  and,  at  any  one  of  these  parties,  there 
are  more  noblemen,  of  the  class  we  hear  of  at  a  distance,  than  at 
the  most  fashionable  rout.  Artists  and  authors  are  there,  in 
what  costume  they  please  to  come.  Those  among  ladies  of  high 


288  AFTER-GROWTH    OF    SOCIETY. 


rank  who  frequent  this  class  of  society,  (of  whom  there  are  many 
who  shine  in  it  and  prefer  it  to  all  others,)  appear  in  full  dress,  if 
they  are  going  afterwards  elsewhere,  or  in  a  home  evening  dress 
if  not,  and,  of  either  sex,  no  particular  toilet  is  exacted  by  cere 
mony  or  usage.  This  freedom  would  be  looked  for,  naturally,  in 
an  intellectual  sphere  of  society  ;  but  there  is  one  feature  of  these 
few  privileged  receptions  in  London  which  takes  the  stranger  by 
surprise — the  extraordinary  proportion  of  beautiful  women  whom 
he  meets  there.  Whether  it  is  that  men  of  intellect  attract 
beauty  by  giving  it  its  best  worship,  or  that  the  most  valued  gifts 
of  Nature  (and  beauty  among  them)  are  the  self-asserting  claims 
to  this  kind  of  society,  we  leave  open  to  speculation.  Among 
the  constant  attractions  at  these,  reunions  of  statesmen,  philoso 
phers,  historians  and  poets,  are  those  three  Sheridan  sisters,  the 
handsomest  women  of  their  time.  Lady  Seymour,  Hon.  Mrs.  Nor 
ton  and  Lady  Dufferin — a  trio  whose  mental  gifts  are  as  rare  as 
their  loveliness.  Lady  Byron  and  the  poet's  daughter  Ada  (now 
Lady  Lovelace)  are  other  habitual  frequenters — very  regularly 
met,  at  least,  in  Mr.  Babbage's  modest  apartments. 

Now,  it  is  this  after-growth  of  society  which  we  spoke  of,  as  the 
stage  of  refinement  which  we  wished  to  see  anticipated  in  New 
York.  It  was  separated  and  formed,  abroad,  when  gayer  and 
more  costly  society  had  been  found  empty  and  unsatisfying.  The 
most  ultimate  civilization  was  requisite  to  establish,  in  England, 
standards  higher  than  rank  or  wealth  ;  but,  with  that  same  facility 
and  alacrity  with  which  we  have  skipped  half-centuries  at  a  time, 
in  other  matters,  we  may  fore-reach  to  this.  The  corresponding 
material  is  about  us,  like  grain  ungathered  into  sheaves,  in  great 
abundance.  Men  of  all  kinds  of  talent  are  now  in  New  York 
without  one  single  centre  around  which  they  can  be  met.  States- 


PASSABLE    SOCIETY.  289 

men,  distinguished  officers,  inventors,  artists,  influential  minds 
among  merchants,  brilliant  lawyers,  professional  foreigners  of  dis 
tinction,  talented  clergymen  and  physicians,  gentlemanly  and 
able  journalists,  brilliantly  endowed  women,  and  beauties— there 
are  enough  of  all  to  form  one  of  the  most  delightful  and  attrac 
tive  societies  in  the  world.  Will  not  some  one  set  the  example, 
and  collect,  in  weekly  receptions  without  cost,  at  early  hours  and 
with  no  ceremony  of  dress  or  etiquette,  a  society  where  the  gifts 
of  God  regulate  the  admission,  and  where  utter  mediocrity  and 
meaningless  display  will  be  self-exiled  by  lack  of  atmosphere  in 
which  to  shine  ? 

13 


MAMERS  AT  WATERING-PLACES, 

Mode  of  making  Acquaintances — Present  ill-regulated  access  to  Ladies' 
Society — Inattention  to  Mothers  and  Guardians — Difficulties  of  well-bred 
Modesty  in  a  Stranger — Proposal  of  new  Laws  of  Etiquette — Suggestion 
as  to  facilitating  desirable  Acquaintance,  and  removal  of  the  Embarrass 
ments  and  Awkwardnesses  of  these  peculiarly  American  Phases  of 
Society,  etc.,  etc. 

IN  the  mode  of  life  at  American  watering-places  exists  a  suffi 
cient  reason,  even  if  there  were  not  many  others,  why  our  coun 
try  should  have  a  code,  of  etiquette  of  its  own.  For  the  regu 
lation  of  this  great  summer-lottery  of  .contact  and  acquaintance, 
indeed,  some  special  rules  of  politeness  have  been  long  needed, 
and  another  season  should  not  go  over  without  the  agitation  of  a 
few  points  of  which  we  will  endeavor  to  present  the  handles. 
The  discussion  of  them  will,  at  least,  furnish  topics  of  conversa 
tion,  and  almost  any  crude  matter  of  opinion,  if  it  be  well  dis 
cussed,  will  grow  clear  with  an  after-word  of  common  sense — as, 
in  the  old  fashioned  making  of  coffee,  it  needed  but  to  be  well 
boiled,  and  a  scrap  of  dry  fish  skin  would  send  all  the  sediment  to 
the  bottom. 

The  subject,  as  Bulwer  says,  "  opens  up"  as  we  look  at  it,  and 
so  many  points  present  themselves,  as  worthy  of  comment,  that 


WATERING    PLACES. 


291 


we  are  not  sure  we  see  the  end  in  the  limited  perspective  of  an 
"  article."  Without  promising  thoroughly  to  approfond  the 
evils  of  watering-places  and  their  remedy,  therefore  let  us  say  a 
word  or  two  of  the  most  obvious,  viz : — 

THE    MANNER    OF    MAKING    ACQUAINTANCES. 

It  is  understood,  of  course,  that  (invalids  excepted)  those,  who 
go  to  Saratoga  and  Newport,  in  the  gay  season,  go  to  see  new 
people,  and  with  the  expectation  to  make  some  new  acquaint 
ances.  Absolute  exclusives,  determined  to  know  nobody  whom 
they  did  not  know  in  the  city,  or  refusing  the  ordinary  and 
courteous  reciprocities  binding  upon  those  who  meet  under  the 
same  roof,  and  share  in  the  same  gayeties,  should  have  summer 
resorts  of  their  own,  and  are  out  of  place  among  strangers.  Such 
exclusiveness  is,  moreover,  an  offence  against  the  general  happi 
ness,  which  no  rule  of  politeness  would  uphold,  and  especially  an 
offence  against  the  more  liberal  courtesy  which  should  prevail  in 
a  republic. 

But  the  most  genial  and  accessible  people  require,  at  such  public 
places,  barriers  to  protect  them  against  too  promiscuous  an  ac 
quaintance  ;  while,  at  the  same  time,  the  stranger  best  worth 
knowing,  requires  some  established  method  of  access  by  which  he 
can  make,  without  embarrassment  or  compromise  of  dignity,  the 
necessary  approaches.  Now,  is  it  not  singular,  that  there  should 
be  an  annual  gathering  together  of  the  most  respectable  people 
of  this  civilized  country,  in  resorts  where  the  usual  slow  forms  of 
introduction  are  impossible,  and  yet,  that  for  these  two  essential 
wants,  there  is  no  definite  provision  in  our  usages  of  politeness  ? 

Of  the  dozen  young  gentlemen  whose  acquaintance  a  young 
lady  will  perhaps  have  made  in  a  "  season"  at  Saratoga,  how 


292  DIFFICULTY    OF    STRANGERS. 

were  the  introductions  brought  about  ?  The  chances  are,  that 
not  one  of  them  was  presented  by  her  father  or  mother,  or  by 
any  elderly  friend  of  her  family.  Girls  of  her  own  age,  whose 
acquaintance  she  has  made  by  feminine  free  masonry,  have  pre 
sented  some,  and  her  city  beaux  have  presented  others,  and  one 
or  two  have  asked  her  to  dance  on  the  strength  of  propinquity  in 
a  group.  They  are  all  very  likely  to  have  become  pretty  well 
acquainted  with  her,  and  to  have  left  the  Springs,  without  being 
presented  to  her  father  and  mother  at  all. 

A  game  at  billiards  or  a  chance  fraternization  over  juleps  in 
the  bar-room,  is,  in  fact,  the  easiest  and  most  frequent  threshold 
of  introduction  to  ladies  at  a  watering-place.  The  dandies  "  in 
society,"  who  chance  to  be  there,  hold  the  keys  of  acquaintance 
ship  with  the  belles,  and  of  course  the  most  knowing  adepts  in  the 
ways  of  young  men  obtain  the  readiest  introductions.  But  sup 
pose  a  youth  who  has  habits  of  self-culture  of  his  own — who 
neither  drinks  at  the  bar,  nor  lounges  in  the  billiard-room,  and  is 
both  unwilling  to  owe  the  acquaintance  of  a  lady  to  such  a  me 
dium,  or  too  proud  to  seek  it  and  run  the  risk  of  a  supercilious 
refusal — and  how  is  this  kind  of  stranger,  who  is  perhaps  the 
most  truly  valuable  acquaintance  a  young  lady  could  possibly 
make,  to  procure  a  presentation  ?  Her  mother  sits  apart,  talk 
ing  to  ladies  of  her  own  age,  and  to  address  her  without  an  intro 
duction  would  surprise  her,  and  might  end  only  in  awkwardness. 
Her  father  is  in  New  York  attending  to  his  business.  Her 
brother  is  in  his  first  stage  of  cravat,  and  as  skittish  of  the  pro 
prieties  of  life  as  a  colt  is  of  harness.  With  no  knowledge  of 
whom  he  should  meet,  the  stranger  had,  of  course,  brought  no 
letters,  and  as  for  credentials,  he  could  scarcely  have  them  in  his 
pocket,  or  scarcely  nail  them  up,  to  be  read,  on  the  parlor  door. 


MATERNAL    SHARE.  293 

Any  advances  to  the  older  gentlemen,  who  were  seen  to  be  gen 
erally  acquainted,  and  with  a  view  to  request  introductions,  might 
be  looked  upon  as  forwardness,  and  could  not  be  made  by  a  sensi 
tive  and  high-minded  man,  without  a  certain  sense  of  humiliation. 
We  go  back  to  a  principle  that  does  not  apply  to  society  at  a 
watering-place  alone,  when  we  say  that  a  young  lady  should  re 
ceive   no   new   acquaintance,    except   through   her   parents,   or 
through  some  one  properly  exercising  parental  responsibility.     It 
is  the  fault,  in  the  manners  of  our  country,  which,  more  than  any 
other,  needs  correction,  that  an  acquaintance  with  a  young  lady 
may  be  begun,  and  pursued,  with  little  or  no  inquiry  or  care  as  to 
the  wishes  of  a  mother,  no  cultivation  of  the  mother's  friendship, 
and  no  attentions  to  her,  whatever,  when  met,  with  or  without  her 
daughter,  in  society.     The  exceptions  to  this  general  fact  show 
how  mistaken  it  is,  in  policy  as  well   as  in  propriety  ;  for,  no 
belles  appear  to  such  advantage,  in  the  eyes  of  men,  as  those 
whom  a  mother's  watchful  care  show  to  be  precious,  and  who,  at 
the  same  time,  have  the  foil  of  a  mother's  graver  manners  to  set 
off  the  more  playful  graces  of  youthfulness.     It  is  partly  from 
having  thus  no  share  in  society,  and  from  the  weariness  of  being 
only  neglected  lookers-on,  that  women  in  this  country  give  up,  so 
early  in  life,  all  efforts  to  please  or  shine,  and  that  there  is,  in 
consequence,   that   lack   of    sympathy   and   friendship   between 
mothers  and  daughters  which  is  so  marked  a  feature  of  our  man 
ners.     We  know  scarce  anything  which  would  so  change,  brighten 
and  elevate  American  society,  as  the  attention  which,  in  England, 
is  shown  to  the  middle-aged,  and  the  deference  which  is  paid  to 
the   old.     But  we   have  discussed   this   bearing  of  our  subject 
elsewhere. 

To  this  two-fold  evil,  then,  of  manners  at  watering-places — in- 


294  COMMITTEE    OF    INTRODUCTION. 


troductions  which  are  too  easy  to  the  forward  and  too  difficult  to 
the  modest — some  remedy  should  be  found.  We  are  likely  to 
continue  a  more  gregarious  people  than  the  Europeans — likely  to 
go  on,  frequenting  watering-places  in  respectable  and  promiscuous 
thousands,  meeting  every  year  a  crowd  of  whom  nine-tenths  are 
strangers  and  candidates  for  new  acquaintance — and  it  is  surely 
reasonable,  that,  for  such  national  peculiarities  of  association ,  wo 
should  have  some  peculiarities  of  polite  usage,  such  as,  of  course, 
we  cannot  copy  or  learn  from  the  never  changing  and  hedged-in 
aristocracies  of  Europe. 

To  define  and  settle  a  new  law  of  politeness,  is  the  work  of 
time  and  much  discussion.  Graver  things  may  be  done  with  half 
the  trouble.  But,  by  way,  merely,  of  throwing  out  a  conjecture, 
the  material  of  which  may  be  pulled  to  pieces  and  rebuilt,  let  us 
sketch  an  arrangement  for  introductions  at  watering-places,  that 
seems  to  us,  for  the  moment,  very  practicable  and  plausible 

At  Saratoga,  for  instance,  at  the  commencement  of  the  season, 
the  landlord  of  the  "  Union"  might  select  six  of  his  most  respecta 
ble  visitors,  and  request  them  to  form  into  a  Committee  of  Man 
agement,  which  should  thence-forward  supply  its  own  vacancies, 
and  enlarge  its  number  at  will.  Their  duty  should  be  to  preside 
generally  over  the  gayeties  and  social  arrangements  of  the  house. 
It  would  be  convenient  if  they  would  allow  themselves  to  be  de 
signated  by  a  ribbon  in  the  button-hole,  but,  at  any  rate,  their 
names  should  be  written  up  in  the  office  of  the  hotel,  and  it  should 
le  etiquette  for  any  gentleman  or  lady  to  speak  to  them  without  an 
introduction.  Every  new  comer,  in  that  case,  would  start,  at 
once,  with  six  accessible  acquaintances,  with  which  provision,  of 
persons  inclined  to  be  courteous,  any  stranger  who  had  tolerable 
tact  and  good  manners,  would  find  no  difficulty  in  getting  on.  In 


CODE    OF    ETIQUETTE.  295 


case  of  an  objectionable  applicant,  the  managers  could  give  no 
offence  by  extending  to  him  only  their  own  civility.  They  would 
exercise  their  discretion  as  to  introductions,  and  as,  of  course, 
they  would  present  no  stranger  to  a  lady  without  first  asking  per 
mission  of  herself  or  her  proper  guardian,  they  could  incur  no 
special  responsibility  by  so  doing. 

The  managers  might  be  addressed  simply  as  "Mr.  Manager," 
and  applied  to,  for  introductions  of  one  gentleman  to  another,  or 
for  any  service  of  ordinary  courtesy.  Ladies  might  request  them 
to  find  partners  for  their  daughters  or  their  friends. 

They  should,  themselves,  be  at  liberty  to  speak  to  any  gentle 
man  or  lady,  unintroduced.  It  should  be  their  duty  to  keep  a 
general  supervision  over  the  happiness  of  visitors,  to  bring  for 
ward  the  difiident,  relieve  embarrassment  or  annoyance,  promote 
amusement,  and  preserve  harmony. 

Perhaps  one  or  two  influential  ladies  might  be  invited  to  share 
in  the  council  duties  of  the  committee  of  management. 

The  managers  might  select  a  sub-committee  of  young  men  to 
manage  the  Balls  and  Hops.  Especially  they  should  be  em 
powered  to  "  put  into  Coventry"  any  offensive  visitor,  refuse  such 
an  one  the  tickets  to  balls,  and  sustain  the  landlord  in  expelling 
him  from  the  house  if  necessary.  In  cases  of  personal  dispute, 
they  should  be  sovereign  umpires,  and  a  man  should  forfeit  his 
position  as  a  gentleman  if  he  did  not  abide  by  their  decision. 

Young  ladies  would  exercise  their  discretion,  of  course,  as  to 
accepting  introductions  through  any  channel ;  but  it  should  be 
voted  better  taste  to  .receive  new  acquaintances  only  through 
parents  or  managers. 

It  might  be  well,  perhaps,  to  consider  a  manager's  introduction, 
or  a  watering-place  acquaintance,  as  in  a  manner  probationary — 


296  WATERING-PLACE    INTRODUCTIONS. 


to  be  dropped  afterwards,  if  advisable,  without  conventional 
offence. 

It  should  be  good  taste  for  any  gentleman  to  ask  an  introduc 
tion  to  another,  at  a  watering-place,  and  proper  to  present  all 
persons  to  each  other  who  happen  to  mingle  in  groups. 

Now  we  can  conceive  our  multitudinous  American  resorts  for 
the  summer,  delightfully  harmonized,  liberalized  and  enlivened  by 
the  adoption  of  a  code  of  which  this  would  be  an  outline.  What 
say,  dear  reader  ? 


OPERA  MANNERS, 

AND  DEMEANOR  OF  GENTLEMEN  IN  AMERICA. 

"  All  this  beheard  a  little  foot-page, 
By  his  ladye's  coach  as  he  ran ; 
Quoth  he, '  though  I  am  my  ladye's  page, 
Yet  I'm  my  lord  Bernard's  man.' " 

BALLAD  OF  LITTLE  MUSGRAVB. 

POLITENESS  to  women  is  an  impulse  of  nature,  and  Americans 
are,  to  women,  the  politest  nation  on  earth.  Politeness  of  gen 
tlemen  to  each  other  is  the  result  of  refinement  and  good  breeding, 
and  American  gentlemen,  toward  their  own  sex,  are  the  least 
polite  people  in  the  world. 

As  close  as  possible  upon  the  heels  of  so  disagreeable  a  truth, 
let  us  mention  an  influence  or  two  which  has  helped  to  increase 
or  confirm  the  Lad  manners  of  American  men. 

In  the  national  principle  of  GET  ON — with  or  without  means — 
but  any  how,  GET  ON  !  the  art  of  persuasion  has  been  pressed 
into  the  service  of  business.  It  was  long  ago  found  out,  in  Wall 
street,  that  politeness  would  help  get  a  note  discounted,  some 
times  procure  a  credit,  frequently  stave  off  a  dun.  Being  used 
more  by  those  who  had  such  occasion  for  it,  than  by  those  who 
13* 


298  CAUSES    OF    RUDENESS. 


effected  their  ends  with  good  endorsements  and  more  substantial 
backing,  politeness  has  gradually  grown  to  be  a  sign  of  a  man  in 
want  of  money.  A  gentlemanly  bow  and  cordial  smile  given  to  a 
man  in  Wall  street,  will  induce  him  to  step  round  the  corner  and 
inquire  of  some  friend  as  to  your  credit — taking  your  bow  and 
smile  to  be  the  forerunner  of  a  demand  for  a  loan. 

Politeness,  again,  has  been  discredited  in  this  country  by  the 
class  of  foreigners  who  have  served  as  examples  of  it.  All 
Frenchmen  are  admirably  polite,  but,  few  of  the  higher  class 
coming  to  this  country,  French  politeness  has  passed  into  a  usual 
sign  of  a  barber,  a  cook,  or  a  dancing  master. 

Much  American  rudeness,  too,  grows  out  of  the  republican  fact 

that,  personal  consequence  being  entirely  a  matter  of  opinion 

(regulated  by  no  Court  precedence,  entailed  fortune  or  heraldic 
record) — every  man  fights  his  own  castle  of  dignity,  and  looks  de 
fiance,  of  course,  into  every  unfamiliar  face  that  approaches. 
Politeness  without  previous  parley  or  some  disarming  of  reserve, 
is  tacitly  understood  to  be  the  deference  of  respectful  admiration 
or  implied  inferiority. 

One  other,  though  perhaps  a  less  distinct  influence  acting  upon 
American  manners,  is  the  peculiar  uncertainty  of  men's  fortunes 
and  positions  in  this  country,  and  the  natural  suspiciousness  and 
caution  which  are  the  inevitable  consequence.  In  such  a  boiling 
pot  of  competition,  with  bubbles  continually  rising  and  bursting, 
the  natural  instinct  of  self-preservation  makes  men  careful  in 
whose  rising  they  seem  to  take  an  interest.  Too  much  openness 
of  manner  and  too  free  a  use  of  the  kind  expressions  of  politeness, 
would  result  in  a  man's  being  too  often  singled  out  for  desperate 
applications  by  friends  in  need.  A  character  for  sympathy  and 


FOREIGNER'S    JUDGMENT.  299 


generosity  is  well  known,  in  American  valuation,  to  be  one  of  the 
most  expensive  of  luxuries. 

It  is  true  that  these  causes  of  our  bad  manners  are  temporary, 
and  will  cease  to  act  as  the  country  refines  and  grows  older ;  but 
is  it  not  a  question  worth  asking,  meantime,  whether  the  ultimate 
standard,  for  the  manners  of  American  gentlemen,  is  not,  thus, 
permanently  affected  ?  We  simply  drop  this  pearl  of  precaution 
into  the  vinegar  of  our  fault-finding. 

To  catalogue  all  the  American  variations  from  foreign  good- 
breeding,  would  be  to  write  a  work  on  manners  in  general — (a 
subject  upon  which  we  are  very  far  from  setting  up  our  opinions 
as  authority,  and  for  which  a  book,  and  not  a  newspaper  article, 
would  offer  the  proper  space) — these  variations  extending  through 
out  all  manners,  as  the  general  discouragement  of  courtesy  lessens 
its  degree  in  every  kind  of  manifestation.  We  wish,  just  here,  to 
comment  on  a  point  or  two  only. 

At  the  Opera,  if  anywhere  in  a  capital  like  this,  one  looks  to 
find  gentlemen,  and  such  good  manners  as  are  conventional  all 
over  the  world.     It  is  the  one  public  amusement  which  has  been 
selected  as  the  centre  for  a  Press  Exchange — a  substitute  for  a 
general  Drawing-room — a  refined  attraction  which  the  ill-man 
nered  would  not  be  likely  to  frequent,  and  around  which  the 
higher  classes  might  gather,  for  the  easier  interchange  of  cour 
tesies,  and  for  that  closer  view  which  aids  the  candidacy  of  ac 
quaintance.     To  the  main  object  of  an  Opera,  music  is,  in  a 
certain   sense,  secondary ;  and   should   be    considered  as  but  a 
lesser  part  of  the  value  received  for  the  price  of  an  Opera  ticket. 
A  foreigner  standing  against  the  stair-railing  of  the  Astor  Place 
Opera  lobby,  between  the  acts,  and  looking  coolly  around  upon 
the  male  crowd,  would  imagine  that  the  men  were  either  most 


300  OP^RA    DISCOURTESIES. 


intimately  acquainted,  or  obstinately  determined  not  to  be  ac 
quainted  at  all — there  is  such  an  utter  absence  of  any  form  'of 
politeness  in  meeting,  greeting,  parting  or  passing  by.  A  man 
in  white  gloves  goes  elbowing  through  the  crowd,  shoving  and  in 
commoding  twenty  people,  without  care  or  hesitation  ;  another 
knocks  your  hat  out  of  your  hand,  and  never  dreams  of  picking  it 
up  or  begging  pardon — a  third  intrudes  upon  two  who  are  con 
versing,  and  perhaps  takes  the  arm  of  one  and  draws  him  away, 
without  the  slightest  excuse  or  acknowledgment  to  the  other  left 
behind — a  fourth  is  reminded  by  a  polite  foreigner  that  he  is 
losing  his  handkerchief,  or  that  another  gentleman  is  beckoning 
to  him,  and  expresses  no  thanks  in  return.  There  are  no  polite 
phrases  to  be  overheard  ;  no  hats  seen  to  be  lifted  ;  no  smiles  of 
courtesy  or  indications  of  respectfulness  at  the  greetings  of  older 
men  ;  and  no  sign  of  the  easy  and  unconscious  hilarity  which 
marks  a  man  not  on  the  look-out  for  a  slight — none  of  the  features, 
in  short,  which  make  up  the  physiognomy  of  a  well-bred  crowd  in 
an  Opera-lobby  of  Europe. 

We  confine  our  remarks  entirely,  as  will  have  been  noticed,  to 
such  politenesses  as  are  based  on  kindness  and  good  feeling.  We 
do  not  think  any  one  country's  customs  are  a  law  for  another,  in 
the  decision  of  such  questions  as  whether  a  gentleman  may  wear 
colored  gloves  at  the  Opera,  or  visit  a  lady's  box  in  a  frock-coat. 
Such  trifles  regulate  themselves.  We  should  be  glad  to  see  a 
distinctly  American  school  of  good  manners,  in  which  all  useless 
etiquettes  were  thrown  aside,  but  every  politeness  adopted  or  in 
vented  which  could  promote  sensible  and  easy  exchanges  of  good 
will  and  sociability.  We  have  neither  time  nor  space  to  say  more 
of  this,  but  will  close  with  the  mention  of  one  very  needful  and 


OCTOBER-DOM.  301 


proper  Operatic  etiquette,  which  is  either  unknown  or  wholly  dis 
regarded  by  most  of  the  frequenters  of  Astor  Place. 

An  Opera-box  is  not  a  place  for  long  conversations,  or  for  mo 
nopoly  of  a  lady's  society.     Even  the  gentleman  who  has  the 
best  claim  to  exclusive  occupancy    (from  acknowledged  prece 
dence  in  favor) ,  commits  an  indelicacy  in  proclaiming  his  privilege 
by  using  it  in  public.     The  Opera  is  a  place  for  greetings,  remind- 
iiigs,  exchanges  of  the  compliments  of  acquaintanceship,  explain- 
ings  of  preventions  or  absences,  making  of  slight  engagements — 
for  the  regulating  and  putting  to  right  of  the  slighter  wheels  in 
the  complicated  machinery  of  society.     It  is  a  labor-saving  inven 
tion  of  fashionable  life — for,  the  twenty  social  purposes  achieved 
in  one  evening  at  the  Opera,  and  by  which  acquaintance  is  kept 
up   or  furthered,  would  require  almost  as  many  separate  calls  at 
the  residences  of  the  ladies.     It  is  upon  these  grounds,  doubtless, 
that  was  first  based  the  common  European  etiquette  of  which  we 
speak,  viz : — that,  after  occupying  a  seat  in  a  lady's  Opera-box 
for  a  few  minutes,  the  occupant  gives  it  up  at  the  approach  of 
another  of  the  lady's  acquaintances,  unless  his  rising  from  the  seat 
is  prevented  by  her  express  wish  to  the  contrary.     Husbands  and 
brothers  are  included  in  this  place-giving  compulsion,  for  the  best 
of  wives  require  some  variety  to  domestic  bliss,  and  ladies  come 
to  the   Opera  to  pay  dues  which  they  owe  to  society  and  ac 
quaintance. 

The  chance  Opera,  at  the  Astor  Place,  last  week,  brought  to 
gether  a  certain  world — call  it  OCTOBER-DOM — for  which  we  have 
yearly  wondered  that  the  Operatic  Manager  has  not  thought  it 
worth  his  while  to  cater.  Few  of  our  own  fashionables  were  pre 
sent,  and  yet  a  more  thoroughly  fashionable  audience  was  never 
assembled  in  that  house.  There  were  Virginians,  Louisianians, 


302  SOUTHERNERS    IN    NEW    YORK. 


Carolinians,  Keutuckians  and  Washingtonians — the  picked  society 
of  these  Southern  and  Western  latitudes — delighted  that  there 
was  a  foretaste  of  the  Opera  which  was  to  commence  after  their 
departure  for  home,  and  evidently  rejoicing  in  a  dress  place  of 
public  entertainment.  We  are  satisfied,  that,  if  there  were  an 
Opera-house  of  twice  the  size,  the  best  Operatic  month  of  the 
whole  year  would  be  the  month  of  October — ministering,  as  ifc 
would,  to  this  high-bred  and  pleasure-loving  October-dom  of 
strangers. 

We  were  very  much  struck,  as  we  presumed  others  were,  who 
were  present,  at  the  air  of  superiority  given  to  the  masculine  por 
tion  of  the  audience,  by  the  presence  of  the  large  number  of 
Southern  gentlemen.  The  leisure  to  grow  to  full  stature,  and  a 
mind  not  overworked  with  cares  and  business,  certainly  have 
much  to  do  with  the  style  and  bearing  of  a  race,  and  the  expres 
sion  of  gentlemanly  superiority,  ease  and  jouissance,  which  pre 
vailed  throughout  the  Opera-house  on  Wednesday  evening,  was 
a  novelty  there,  and  one  of  which  we  might  well  desire  the  cul 
ture  and  perpetuation. 

As  our  country's  great  centre  of  transit,  we  should  think  the 
society  of  New  York,  as  well  as  its  special  public  amusement  of 
fashion,  might  accommodate  itself  to  the  October  presence  of 
Southerners,  with  advantage.  A  brief  gay  season  of  early  parties, 
on  the  off  nights  of  the  Opera,  might  take  place  in  this  month, 
and  the  usual  painting,  and  exchanging  of  carpets  and  curtains, 
which  is  the  present  ostensible  reason  for  closed  houses,  might  be 
deferred  till  a  November  vacation.  What  the  French  call  Pete 
de  St.  Mar tin ,  and  we  "  the  Indian  Summer,"  might  be,  socially, 
the  most  delightful  month  in  the  year.  It  would  be  the  etiquette, 
as  it  used  to  be  in  Boston  about  the  time  of  Harvard  Commence- 


TEDESCO. 


303 


merit,  to  call  upon  all  presentable  strangers ;  and  this  custom 
would  promote  an  intimacy  and  good  feeling  between  Northern 
and  Southern  society,  which  would  be  no  trifling  link  in  binding 
the  country  together. 

The  Opera  was  very  fairly  done.  Tedesco,  (whose  pinguidity 
waxes,)  was  not  in  her  best  vein — (and  she  is  the  most  journaliere 
prima  donna  we  ever  saw) — but  she  furnished  one  evening's  suffi 
cient  allowance  of  pleasure,  and  we  should  be  glad  to  compromise 
for  as  much,  twice  a  week.  Taffanelli,  the  most  fighting-cock- 
esque  of  stage-walkers,  who  sings,  as  we  said  last  winter,  like  a 
man  with  a  horse  under  him — a  sort  of  baritone  centaur,  magnifi 
cently  masculine — gave  us,  as  before,  unlimited  satisfaction. 
That  he  is  not  engaged  by  the  Astor  Place  management,  seems 
to  us  one  of  those  fatuitous  blunders  which  there  must  be  some 
thing,  undreamed  of,  behind  the  curtain,  to  explain. 


WEDDING  ETIQUETTES, 

Proprieties  of  Cards — Mistakes  of  Courtship — Purgatory  Antecedent  to 
Wedlock — Rights  of  Lovers — Suggestion  of  new  Etiquette  at  Weddings — 
Time  to  have  American  Etiquettes  and  Customs,  etc. 

WE  receive  letters  from  time  to  time,  requesting  information 
through  The  Home  Journal,  upon  points  of  ceremony  and  fash 
ionable  usages.  To  all  such  inquirers  we  would  say,  that  they 
have,  nearer  home,  an  infallible  guide  in  these  matters — good 
sense  and  kind  consideration  for  others  being  the  basis  of  every 
usage  of  polite  life  that  is  worth  regarding,  and  the  best  way  to 
settle  any  disputed  etiquette,  being  simply  to  dissect  its  purpose, 
see  whether  it  fulfils  it,  or  whether  it  was  not  originally  made  for 
a  different  society  from  that  in  which  it  is  proposed  to  copy  it. 
All  European  usages  of  politeness  are  not  suited  to  American 
opinions,  habits,  temper  and  institutions  ;  and,  indeed,  we  have 
long  thought  that  our  country  was  old  enough  to  adopt  manners 
and  etiquettes  of  its  own — based,  like  all  politeness,  upon  benevo 
lence  and  common  sense,  but  still  differing,  with  our  wants  and 
character  as  a  people. 

Simple  as  the  reasons  for  all  polite  usages  are.  or  should  be, 
however,  there  is,  now  and  then,  a  point  upon  which  there  is  a 


WEDDING    CARDS.  305 

difference  of  opinion  ;  and,  perhaps,  it  may  help  to  Americanize 
a  code  of  politeness ,  (an  object  we  think  it  well  worth  our  while  to 
further,)  if  we  answer,  as  far  as  we  are  able,  inquiries  upon  such 
points  as  fairly  admit  of  question. 

We  have  before  us,  (post-marked  mostly  in  the  city,)  a  mod 
erate  pyramid  of  letters,  asking  decisions  upon  points  of  wedding 
etiquette.  Most  of  these  are  of  too  simple  solution  for  the  neces 
sary  gravity  of  print ;  but,  as  almost  any  of  our  readers  may  be 
concerned,  one  way  or  another,  in  turning  the  key  of  wedlock, 
we  select  one  of  the  difficulties  which  is  not  touched  upon  in  the 
"  Manual  of  Etiquette,"  and  proceed  to  pick  open  its  intricacies. 
Trifle  of  etiquette  as,  in  itself,  it  is,  (perhaps  we  may  as  well 
prefatorily  say,)  the  query  we  speak  of,  makes  part  of  a  very  seri 
ous  and  important  matter,  and  we  are  by  no  means  sure  that, 
with  only  a  visiting  card  for  a  text,  we  shall  not  end  in  what 
would  pass  for  a  sermon. 

In  one  rather  discursive  letter,  the  closing  passage  thus  sums 
up  what  the  writer  wishes  to  know  : — 

"  Mr.  Brown,  to  state  the  case  once  more,  is  to  marry  Miss  Smith.  The 
invitations  to  the  wedding  are  sent  out,  but  whose  card  should  be  sent  with 
it — Miss  Smith's  or  Mr.  Brown's  ?  And  why  should  not  the  parents  of  Mr. 
Brown  send  also  cards  and  invitations  to  their  son's  wedding  ?" 

The  latter  query  need  scarce  be  answered,  for,  as  givers  of  the 
entertainment  in  their  own  house,  it  is  of  course  proper  that  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Smith  should  send  out  the  invitations  in  their  own 
name,  and  with  no  mention  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brown. 

Touching  the  first  query,  we  have  more  to  say.  The  fashion, 
in  New  York,  is  to  enclose,  with  the  invitation  from  the  parents, 
the  card  of  the  affianced  young  lady — and  this,  we  think,  is  an 
error.  It  is  not  necessary  for  the  purpose  of  announcing  that  the 


306  MISTAKE    OF    USAGE. 


proposed  entertainment  is  to  be  a  wedding — for  the  card  of  invi 
tation  is  of  the  peculiar  style  known  as  a  bridal  card,  and  tells  in 
itself,  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smith  are  to  be  "  At  Home"  on  -such  a 
day,  to  marry  a  daughter.  This  much  being  known,  the  informa 
tion  next  demanded  is — to  whom  ?  But  this  is  not  answered  by 
enclosing  Miss  Smith's  card,  and  the  only  meaning  it  can  have,  as 
an  additional  enclosure,  must  be  to  say  that  she,  too,  joins  in  the 
invitation.  But  is  it  not  understood  that  an  unmarried  girl  has 
no  welcome  to  offer,  to  visitors,  which  is  at  all  separable  from 
that  of  her  parents  ?  and  is  it  not  a  well-established  usage  that  a 
bride,  during  all  the  preparations  for  her  marriage,  should  be 
nominally  passive  and  secluded — entering,  for  the  time,  into 
almost  the  novitiate  of  a  nun,  and  taking  no  demonstrative  part 
in  any  matter  which  could  be  heard  or  spoken  of  out  of  doors  ? 

To  enclose  the  bridegroom's  card,  on  the  contrary,  would  serve 
one  or  two  specific  purposes.  It  would  explain  to  whom  the  in 
viting  parents  propose  to  marry  their  daughter.  It  would  show 
that  it  was  with  the  bridegroom's  good  will  that  the  invitation 
was  sent  to  each  particular  person  ;  and  that  he  wished  to  adopt 
his  bride's  friends  as  his  own  ;  and  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smith,  by 
sending  his  name  in  company  with  theirs,  formally  introduced  and 
commended  their  new  son-in-law  to  the  acquaintance  and  friend 
ship  of  their  visiting  circle. 

But  we  do  not  plummet  this  matter  to  the  bottom,  in  discuss 
ing  its  mere  reasonableness  as  an  etiquette.  The  New  York 
fashion  of  sending  the  bride's  card,  when  the  bridegroom's  would 
go  more  properly  in  its  place,  is  an  exponent  of  something  deeper 
than  a  mistaken  guess  at  propriety.-  It  is  in  accordance  with  a 
general  feeling,  constantly  acted  on,  in  this  country,  and  to  which 
we  have  long  thought  attention  should  be  called — throwing,  as  it 


LOVER'S    PURGATORY.  307 


does,  mistrust,  depreciation  and  humiliating  difficulty  across  the 
approaches  to  marriage,  and  laying  up  resentments  and  mistaken 
valuations  for  after  annoyance  and  disenchantment. 

Let  us  try  to  explain  the  operation  of  the  feeling  to  which  we 
refer — premising  that  we  speak  only  of  matches  that  are  tolera 
bly  equal,  or  where  the  wife,  in  a  year  or  two  after  marriage,  will, 
most  likely,  be  considered  to  have  married  well. 

The  lover  and  the  preferee — (we  must  make  a  word  to  answer 
our  purpose,  for  there  is  none  in  the  language  which  describes  a 
young  lady  to  whom  a  gentleman  is  paying  his  addresses,  after  the 
intimate  fashion  universal  in  America) — the  lover  and  the  pre- 
feree,  we  repeat,  undergo  a  counter  metamorphosis,  in  the  esti 
mation  of  her  family  and  friends,  the  moment  his  intentions  are 
made  known.  He,  from  a  respectable  and  promising  youth,  as 
youths  average,  becomes  at  once  a  pretender,  a  culprit,  and  an 
object  of  disparagement  and  suspicion.  She,  from  being  a  mortal, 
with  the  usual  accomplishments  and  feminine  liabilities,  becomes 
at  once  a  faultless  angel,  the  advantages  of  whose  alliance  are  be 
yond  dispute,  and  whose  "  attachment  to  such  a  man  is  most 
surprising."  From  a  comparative  level  of  pretensions,  she  is  un 
hesitatingly  raised  to  the  zenith,  and  he  as  unhesitatingly  pre 
cipitated  to  the  nadir  ;  and  it  is  in  this  relative  false  position  that 
the  courtship  is  carried  on.  His  good  qualities  are  coldly  allowed, 
his  youthful  prospects  made  light  of — his  faults  and  disadvantages 
exaggerated  and  dwelt  upon.  During  the  whole  period  of  the 
lover's  "  addresses,"  there  is  one  prevailing  influence  brought  to 
bear  upon  the  preferee's  mind — that  she  might  have  done  letter, 
and  that  the  giving  of  her  hand  to  this  man  is  a  condescension, 
which  he  should  start  fair  with  understanding. 

That  a,n  unwillingness  to  submit  to  this  undeserved  purgatory, 


308  EVILS    OF    "ENGAGEMENTS." 


and  a  distaste  for  the  family  in  which  he  is  treated  as  a  tolerated 
intruder,  drives  many  a  sensitive  man  to  break  an  engagement 
which  might  else  have  ended  happily,  is  easy  enough  to  think 
probable.  But  to  him  who  persists,  and  marries  in  spite  of  these 
obstacles,  they  are  hardly  less  an  evil.  He  is  little  likely  ever 
thoroughly  to  forgive  those  relatives  and  friends  of  his  wife  whose 
disparagement  and  coldness,  at  so  critical  a  time,  wounded  his 
vanity  and  perilled  his  dearest  hope ;  and  there  is  always,  after 
wards,  of  course,  an  unpleasant  recollection,  which  stands  ready, 
like  tinder,  for  a  quarrel,  and  shuts  off  that  cordial  groundwork 
of  family  intimacy  which,  in  England,  in  most  cases,  makes  the 
new  relationship,  acquired  by  marriage,  one  of  the  greatest  bless 
ings  that  it  brings.  The  worst  evil  still  follows — the  inevitable 
descent  of  the  young  wife,  soon  after  marriage,  from  her  zenith 
of  false  valuation,  and  the  rise,  as  inevitable,  of  the  husband  from 
his  unfair  position  of  disparagement.  The  lesson  of  what  is  due, 
from  one  wedded  heart  to  the  other,  is  to  be  learned  all  over  again  ; 
and  it  takes  tempers,  to  say  the  least,  unusually  docile  and  for 
bearing,  not  to  jar  in  the  setting  right  of  such  late-found  errors 
of  comparative  estimation. 

The  prevalence  of  so  irrational  a  feeling  would  seem  singular, 
if  the  causes  were  not  so  apparent  and  natural.  It  arises  partly 
from  the  uncertainty  of  "engagements,"  in  our  present  state  of 
society,  and  a  consequent  desire,  on  the  part  of  relatives,  that,  in 
case  the  lover  gives  up  the  pursuit,  the  preferee,  firstly,  shall  not 
have  become  too  much  in  love,  and  secondly,  shall  seem,  herself, 
to  have  broken  the  tie,  owing  to  the  objectionable  qualities  which 
(as  the  relatives'  previous  abuse  had  made  evident)  came  out 
upon  more  intimate  acquaintance.  These  "  engagements,"  too, 
numbering  from  three  to  five,  and  the  young  lady  losing  value  as  a 


DUE    TO    A    LOVER.  309 


match,  in  proportion  to  the  number  whose  names  have  been  con 
nected  with  hers,  the  lover,  is,  in  a  manner,  "  the  enemy"  until 
it  is  quite  certain  that  he  is  "  the  one."  Then — good  things  as 
religion  and  "  American  homage  to  woman"  are,  there  is  a  cant 
about  both ;  and,  just  as  the  pretention  to  over-holiness,  by  hy 
pocrites  and  by  the  silly,  makes  true  piety  undervalued,  so  the 
true  position  of  woman  is  falsified  by  the  indiscriminate  transfor 
mation  of  all  who  are  sought  into  angels — the  purgatory  (besides) 
which  is  put  between,  and  through  which  angels  can  alone  be 
reached,  being  likely  to  be  remembered,  (by  the  persevering  sin 
ner  who  after  all  wins  only  a  mortal),  as  the  "  too  much  paid  for 
the  whistle."  No,  no  !  the  disappointments,  after  wedlock, 
should  be  but  of  one  kind — like  the  poor  man's  in  the  Persian 
story,  who,  in  the  tumult  of  the  market-place  bought  a  silent 
bird  for  a  wren,  but,  in  the  solitude  of  his  chamber,  it  turned  out 
a  nightingale. 

To  provoke  agitation  of  an  objectionable  point  which  is  still 
settled  by  general  usage,  is,  of  course,  all  that  a  newspaper  writer 
could  aspire  to  do  ;  but  we  may  be  allowed  perhaps,  without 
seeming  to  assume  authority  in  such  matters,  to  suggest  the 
changes  we  should  like  to  see — thus  recapitulating,  briefly,  the 
burthen  of  our  subject. 

From  the  moment  that  a  young  man  assumes  the  attitude  of 
allowed  suitor  to  a  lady,  he  should  be  encircled  with  the  kind  pro 
tection  and  considerate  respect  which  belongs  to  a  relative.  The 
necessary  inquiry  into  his  character  and  position  should  be  made 
with  the  utmost  delicacy,  and  by  those  alone  who  have  the  war 
rant  of  parental  authority.  In  their  manners  to  him,  the  family 
of  the  lady  should  show  that  they  consider  him  made  sacred  by 
the  preference  of  their  beloved  one,  and  should  anticipate,  by 


310  DUE    TO    BRIDEGROOMS. 


courtesy,  the  confiding  cordiality  lie  is  expected  and  trusted  to 
deserve.  His  own  value  should  be  fully  and  generously  allowed, 
and  a  deference  to  his  wishes  and  opinions  should  be  shown,  such 
as  will  chime  with  the  probable  state  of  things  in  a  year  after  his 
marriage.  Whatever  be  the  kind  of  man  a  daughter  is  likely  to 
marry,  he  would  be  tenfold  more  bound  to  be  a  good  husband  and 
a  kind  relative,  by  such  treatment,  than  by  the  suspicious  cold 
ness  and  cautious  disparagement  we  have  described. 

We  should  like,  also,  to  see  the  American  wedding  etiquette 
contain  some  token  of  compliment  to  the  bridegroom.  The  newly 
come,  in  religious  orders,  in  the  world's  honors  and  in  hospitality, 
have  some  ceremony  of  welcome.  If  it  were  only  the  formal  en 
closure  of  his  card  with  that  of  his  parents-in-law,  in  the  invita 
tions  to  the  wedding,  it  would  be  at  least,  a  recognition.  But 
this  might  be  done  and  something  more.  At  present,  he  stands 
with  his  bride,  after  the  ceremony,  and  the  groomsmen  bring  up 
the  visitors,  who  bow  to  both  together,  looking  only  at  the  bride, 
of  course,  and  retire.  But  the  bridegroom  is  a  just  admitted 
member  of  the  family,  and  a  guest  under  the  roof;  and  would  it 
not  be  like  a  respect  and  a  welcome,  if  he  should  stand  apart 
after  the  marriage,  and  let  the  presentations,  to  him,  be  made 
separately,  and  by  the  father  or  male  relatives  of  the  bride  ? 


SOCIETY  NEWS, 

A  SIGNIFICANT  move  is  making,  in  New  York  society,  just 
now.  Its  demonstrations  are  such  as  would  not  take  place  in  an 
older  country.  Like  youthful  blood,  which  throws  out,  in  a 
"  rash,"  or  a  "  scarlatina,"  a  disease  which,  in  older  blood,  would 
strike  to  the  heart,  American  society  no  sooner  becomes  conscious 
of  an  evil  than  it  sets  about  the  removal  of  it. 

Before  mentioning  the  signs  of  the  new  movement,  let  us  first 
define  the  uneasiness  which  it  is  struggling  to  correct. 

The  phrase  "  it  don't  pay,"  is  the  metal  of  a  great  deal  too 
much  that  is  American.  From  the  Republic's  broadly-based 
temple  of  Refinement  amid  Freedom,  this  pitiless  knife  slices  off 
dome  and  steeple.  For  what  we  have,  that  is  ornamental, 
indeed,  we  are  indebted  to  a  devil  whose  tail  we  would  fain 
conceal,  viz. :  the  love  of  ostentation — but,  without  this,  what  is 
there,  except  business,  that  would  be  quoted  "  to  pay  ?" 

That  the  society  of  the  ladies  is  a  stock  that  is  "  down  in  the 
market" — that  it  "  don't  pay,"  and  that  those  who  can  invest  in 
any  thing  else  are  shy  of  it — is  mortifyingly  true ;  but  there  is  a 
partial  apology  for  the  dulness  of  the  American  enterprise  on  this 
point,  which  we  hasten  to  explain. 


312  TWO    EUROPEAN-ISMS. 

In  all  countries  but  this,  there  are  two  kinds  of  guano  by  which 
the  masculine  plants,  in  the  garden  of  society,  are  mostly  forced 
into  flower.  These  two  stimulants  to  the  bright  blossoms  of 
European  politeness  and  devotion — two  which  are  not  yet 
imported  or  used  in  American  cultivation — are  intrigue  and 
"  gallantry."  On  the  strong  juices  of  vice  or  vanity,  concealed 
under  the  showy  efflorescence  of  "  men  about  town,"  these 
manures  act  very  powerfully.  Of  the  former,  (intrigue,)  we 
need  not  speak,  as  the  flower  which  it  produces  is  so  diligently 
recognised  and  weeded  out  from  American  society,  that  there  is 
no  fear  of  it  except  where  it  can  grow  wild ;  but  of  the  latter, 
(gallantry,)  let  us  say  a  word,  by  way  of  botanical  analysis. 

Married  men,  and  all  men  who  still  believe  in  their  powers  of 
pleasing,  go  eagerly  "  into  society,"  in  Europe.  It  is  not  for  the 
mere  sake  of  being  seen  there,  for  social  rank  is  not  lost,  (in  old 
and  slow  countries),  by  being  out  of  sight.  It  is  not  to  hear 
music  or  to  see  dancing.  It  is  not  to  exchange  mere  civilities 
with  acquaintance,  to  hear  the  scandal,  and  eat  an  untimely 
supper.  If  these  were  the  only  inducements,  they  would  doubtless 
vote,  with  the  Americans,  that  "it  don't  pay."  But,  (personal 
motives  of  ambition  or  interest  aside)  there  is  one  general 
motive  which  brings  those  eagerly  into  society,  whose  "views  are 
virtuous."  You  may  call  it  vanity,  if  you  please,  but  it  is  so 
refined  upon,  and  so  tinctured  with  the  neighbourhood  of  things 
more  sacred,  that  we  are  very  much  inclined  to  propose  it  for  an 
exotic  importation. 

A  "  middle-aged  man,"  for  instance,  enters  an  evening  party. 
The  quarantine  speech  to  the  lady  of  the  house  well  over,  he 
addresses  himself  to  the  appropriation  of  what  pleasure  he 
expected  to  find  in  the  assemblage  present.  With  a  polite  bow, 


FRIENDSHIPS    OF    SENTIMENT.  313 

here  and  there,  as  he  winds  his  way  through  the  crowd,  he  arrives 
presently  at  the  side  of  a  lady  who  gives  him  a  cordial  shake  of 
the  hand,  and  makes  room  for  him,  if  possible,  to  sit  down  bosido 
her.     She  is  one  of  a  certain  number,  circulating  in  the  same 
society,  with  whom  he  is  on  terms  of  confidence  and  friendship. 
Her  health,  since  he  saw  her,  is  a  matter  of  sincere  and  kind 
enquiry  ;  her  looks  and  toilette  for  the  evening,  and  her  incidents 
of  life,  more  or  less  important,  for  the  last  few  days,  are  respect 
fully  and  tenderly  discussed.     Comments  on  what  is  around,  and 
news  of  the  day,  mix  in  with  these  beginnings  of  conversation. 
But  there  is  a  fund  of  reserved   interest   beyond  these  trifles. 
The  lady  is  one  whom  he  binds  to  him  by  delicate  attentions 
perpetually  remembered.     Presents  in  the  holidays,  and  civilities 
in  public  places,  are  the  more  formal  manifestations  ;  and,  by  a 
constant  watchfulness  over  her  position  and  associations,  he  finds 
many  opportunities  of  serving  her,  and  of  making  her  life  seem 
guarded  and  ministered  to.     In  return  for  this,  she  is  his  friend. 
She  takes  an  interest  in  his  ambition,  his  success  in  business,  his 
annoyances,  his  likes  and  dislikes,  his  health  and  his  designs  for 
the  future.     She  loves  his  wife  and  his  children — counsels  him  ns 
to  critical  questions  of  conduct — talks,  or  lets  him  talk,  as  either 
has  more  to  say — requests  services  of  him,  or  confides  secrets  to 
him — does  her  best,  in  short,  to  minister  to  his  valuation   of 
himself,  as  he  ministers  to  hers.     They  chat  for  an  hour,  and  ho 
passes  on — each  to  say  kind  things  of  the  other  to  those  whom 
they  next  meet,  each  to  correct  whatever  is  afloat  to  the  other's 
prejudice,  each  to  thank  the  other  for  that  much  of  pleasure  at 
the  party,  and  to  hope  for  another  such  meeting  in  society,  soon 
again.     The  attentions  which  such  a  friend  pays  to  such  a  lady 

are  called,  in  France,  galantcries,  and  the  impulse  which  prompts 
14 


314  DANCES    DISCOUNTENANCED. 

them  you  may  call  vanity,  if  you  will ;  but  the  selfish  and  soul- 
narrowing  mope,  at  home,  of  a  man  who  declares  that  these 
things  "don't  pay,"  is  a  less  desirable  alternative.  We  are 
inclined  to  think—even  apart  from  the  interest  of  men  in  the 
matter— that  every  woman  in  the  world,  who  is  not  frightful 
within  and  without,  would  prefer  the  galanteries,  and  think 
society  very  much  improved  by  them. 

Hitherto,  in  America,  we  need  not  say,  the  manifestations  of 
such  a  friendship  as  we  have  described,  would  have  been  flagrant 
ground  for  scandal  and  suspicion.  And,  what  with  this  female 
readiness  to  prejudge  conduct,  and  the  male  readiness  to  find 
things  that  "  pay  better"— between  these  two  causes,  we  say- 
society  in  New  York  has  become  almost  exclusively  a  method  of 
getting  together  women  and  boys— the  men  being  no  part  or 
parcel  of  what  is  promiscuously  designated  as  "  the  gay  world" 
by  those  who  preach  at  it  from  a  distance. 

As  we  said  in  the  beginning,  there  are  signs  that  this  evil  is 
felt,  and  there  are  movements  making  to  remedy  it.  A  feeling  is 
gaining  ground  that  men  should  be  included  in  polite  society. 
The  morning  receptions,  particularly,  to  which  not  even  boys  go 

unpivoted  halves  of    scissors   exclusively  present — have  been 

voted  unsatisfying.  It  is  one  of  the  movements  we  speak  of,  that 
two  or  three  of  the  leading  ladies  of  fashion  have  resolved  to 
receive,  early  in  the  evening^  when  the  men,  who  are  to  be  urged 
to  come,  are  more  likely  to  think  "  it  will  pay." 

Another  significant  movement,  tending  to  the  same  end,  is  the 
recent  hostile  blow  at  the  boy-ocracy,  struck  by  the  suppression 
of  the  "  polka  and  schottish."  It  is  voted  not  proper  for  ladies 
to  dance  these  dances  with  any  thing  that  is  old  enough  to  do  any 


LADY    MEMBERS    OF    CLUBS.  315 

harm ;  and,  as  men  are  expected  in  society,  such  over-familiarities 
are  to  be  confined  hereafter  to  the  nursery. 

The  third  movement  we  noticed  last  week — the  admission  of 
ladies  as  members  of  the  Athenaeum  Olub.  This  is  a  sort  of 
meeting  of  the  men  half  way — a  willingness  to  get  acquainted — 
a  confession  of  the  desirableness  of  thoughts  and  knowledge  in 
common,  and  an  "  openness  to  conviction,"  as  to  exclusive  rights 
respectively  claimed  and  monopolized.  We  repeat  our  admiration 
of  this  arrangement.  It  will  lead  to  a  compromise,  and  a  social 
union  of  both  sexes  in  a  developed  state,  in  New  York  society, 
we  fervently  hope. 


THE   PROPRIETY   OF  SKETCHES  OF   FASHIONABLE 
SOCIETY, 

WE  have,  for  some  time,  wanted  an  opportunity  to  draw  a  line 
of  distinction  as  to  what  properly  incurs  publicity, 

There  is  some  difference,  worthy  of  mention,  also,  we  conceive, 
between  the  just  liability  to  this,  in  England  or  in  America. 

One  other  point  can  be  touched  upon,  (under  the  same  text 
accidentally  furnished  us) — an  ultra-aristocratical  peculiarity  of 
this  country,  which  threatens  soon  to  become  a  "  cancer  beyond 
cautery,"  and  to  which,  at  least,  it  will  do  no  harm  to  call 
attention. 

The  price  of  more  admiration  from  the  world  than  falls 
ordinarily  to  one  person's  lot,  has,  by  immemorial  usage,  included 
-one  inconvenience — a  forfeiture  of  privacy  as  to  conduct,  and  a 
subjection  to  public  criticism  as  to  manners,  habits,  and  personal 
appearance.  Authors,  artists,  orators,  and  men  high  in  office, 
must  stop  on  the  very  threshold  of  Fame,  and  take  leave  of  • 
privacy  of  heart  and  home.  Fontenelle  says  of  Newton,  "  He 
was  more  desirous  of  remaining  unknown,  than  of  having  the 
calm  of  life  disturbed  by  those  literary  storms  which  genius  and 
science  attract  about  those  who  rise  to  eminence."  And  the 


EQUALIZED    PRICE    OF    ADMIRATION.  317 

sentiment  of  former  ages  on  the  subject  is  thus  expressed  by  a 
celebrated  writer: — " In  ancient  Rome,  the  great  men,  who 
triumphed  amid  the  applauses  of  those  who  celebrated  their 
virtues,  were,  at  the  same  time,  compelled  to  listen  to  those  who 
reproached  them  with  their  vices.  The  custom  is  not  less  necessary 
to  the  .republic  of  letters  than  it  was  formerly  to  the  republic  of 
Home.  Without  this,  it  is  probable  that  authors  would  be 
intoxicated  with  success,  and  would  relax  in  their  accustomed 
vigour  ;  and  the  multitude  who  took  them  for  models,-  would,  for 
want  of  judgment,  imitate  their  defects.'' 

Without  discussing  the  justice  of  this  time-honoured  payment 
for  distinction,  it  seems  to  us  that  the  pervading  principle  of  a 
republic  should  equalize  the  price  of  public  admiration  to  all 
customers.  Under  Courts  and  Monarchies,  it  may  be  consistently 
allowed,  to  privileged  classes,  to  force  their  display  of  superiority 
upon  the  public,  and  at  the  same  time  forbid  public  criticism  of 
even  the  bad  taste  or  bad  morals  that  may  accompany  it.  The 
self-asserting  and  prevailing  leaders  of  fashion,  more  particularly, 
it  seems  to  us,  should  be  responsible  to  public  criticism,  in  a 
republic.  The  private  lives  of  authors,  artists  and  politicians, 
have  no  influence ,  in  comparison  with  those  of  leaders  of  fashion. 
They  should  be  more  subject  to  critical  publicity,  in  proportion 
as  they  give  the  tone  to  morals,  stamp  the  manners,  and  introduce 
and  regulate  the  usages  of  the  country.  The  writer  of  the  Life 
of  the. great  Confucius  (to  whose  memory  1560  temples  now  stand 
erected  in  China)  mentions  this  very  responsibility  as  the  key  to 
his  whole  life  of  effort.  "  The  course  of  Confucius  seemed  to 
say,  '  If  I  can  win  princes  and  their  courts  to  wisdom  and  virtue 
— through  their  influence  descending  upon  the  mass,  I  will  gradually 
reform  all  the  people. '  Nor  was  this  reformatory  scheme  unworthy 


318  LIABILITY   TO    CRITICISM. 


of  his  mind.     THE  FEW    have   always  created  the  character  of 
society." 

Of  course,  it  is  very  difficult  to  have  fashionable  society 
criticised  with  tact,  truth  and  taste.  But  there  is  just  as  little 
likelihood  that  the  private  life  of  an  author  will  be  criticised  with 
tact,  truth  and  taste — and  yet  he  is  forced  to  live  with  less  social 
protection  than  other  men,  and  take  his  chance.  Our  feeling  is, 
that  any  society  which  claims  superiority  to  the  many,  and  which 
in  reality  sets  examples  for  the  many,  should  be  open  to  the 
criticism  of  the  many.  And  the  same  of  individuals.  There 
seems  an  instinctive  and  natural  law  of  compensation,  by  which 
we  have  a  right  to  be  reconciled  as  far  as  possible  to  the  superi 
orities  of  this  world,  partly  by  knowing  truly  the  drawbacks  to 
their  lot,  and  partly  by  making  them  more  responsible  for  their 
use  of  what  we  are  deprived  of.  The  private  life  of  a  very  rich 
or  very  fashionable  person  is  as  much  more  legitimately  a  subject 
of  public  criticism,  in  proportion  to  the  public  deference  or 
admiration  he  receives,  as  is  the  life  of  an  author  or  a  public 
man. 

Our  readers  will  remember  that  we  expressed  great  pleasure, 
not  long  since,  in  the  promise  of  a  series  of  articles  by  M.  de 
Trobriand,  in  his  French  Review,  on  the  gossip  and  gayeties  of 
New  York  society.  What  we  said  then,  was  based  upon  the 
feeling  we  have  expressed  now,  and  upon  the  prospect  that  the 
work  would  be  done,  as  it  rightly  should  be — by  a  man  who  is 
himself  part  of  the  society  he  would  sketch,  who  would  treat  it 
fairly,  and  describe  it  truly,  and  who,  at  the  same  time,  is  enough 
a  citizen  of  the  world  to  detect  local  absurdities,  and  has  plenty 
of  talent  and  satire  at  his  command  to  hit  justly,  and  reform  while 
he  should  amuse.  In  the  transfer  of  his  gay  and  brilliant  pen  to 


THE    RIGHT    CRITICS.  319 


the  Courrier  des  Etats  Unis,  the  idea  seems  to  have  been 
dropped  ;  but  we  trust  to  hear  of  it  again.  While  nothing  is 
more  necessarily  unjust,  and  more  to  be  frowned  upon,  than 
criticism  of  any  sort  of  distinction,  either  of  society  or  individu 
als,  by  the  ignorant  or  merely  envious,  there  is  great  propriety,  as 
we  have  above  endeavored  to  show,  in  its  being  done  by  those  who 
share,  or  have  a  right  to  understand  it.  It  was  on  this  ground 
that  we  copied,  last  week,  the  "  Sketches  of  New  York  Society," 
by  Mr.  Bristed.  That  clever  article,  written  with  "rather 
venturesome  freedom,"  as  we  said,  directed  its  artillery  against 
positive  evils  of  society — against  improper  dances,  American 
excess  of  family  quarrels,  American  excess  of  slander,  married 
women's  smoking  and  flirting,  and  the  arbitrary  and  tyrannical 
exercise  of  exclusiveness.  We  repeat,  that  there  should  be  no 
class  so  privileged,  in  a  republic,  that  such  faulty  and  dangerous 
examples  should  not  be  publicly  criticised. 

We  have  not  yet  spoken  of  the  formidable  evil  at  which  the 
article  in  question  strikes  an  indirect  blow — an  evil  upon  which  we 
are  glad  to  see  war  made,  in  any  shape,  and  which  we  hope  to  see 
assailed  more  definitely  by  the  same  leisurely  and  effective  pen. 
With  no  time  or  space  at  present  to  enlarge  upon  what  we  allude 
to,  we  will  briefly  mention  it,  as  the  fashionable,  cxclusiveness, 
exercised  so  insultingly  and  tyrannically  at  American  watering- 
places.  This  is  carried  to  an  extent  which  would  be  incredible  in 
Europe,  and  a  tithe  of  which  would  not  be  ventured  upon  by  the 
nobility  assembled  at  any  Spa  of  Germany.  Thousands  of  most 
respectable  persons  avoid  Newport  and  Saratoga,  from  disgust  at 
the  assumption  of  a  few  ruling  fashionables,  their  monopoly  of 
everything  in  the  way  of  privilege,  and  their  systematized  plan  of 
creating  an  exclusive  circle,  to  whose  favour  every  visitor  must 


320  WATERING-PLACE    ABUSES. 


either  be  subject,  or  suffer  marked  disparagement  and  inconve 
nience.  With  all  due  allowance,  as  to  the  right  of  every  one  to 
refuse  his  acquaintance  to  whom  he  pleases,  it  is  a  right  which 
should  be  exercised  modestly  and  unobservedly.  Those  who  go 
to  a  public  watering-place  in  America,  go  to  meet  the  public  on 
what  is  equal  ground.  However  exclusive  at  home,  they  have  no 
right  to  let  their  exclusiveness  offend  any  one  there.  The 
introduction  of  a  dance  which  offends  the  sense  of  propriety  of 
the  many — the  concerted  refusal  to  stand  up,  if  a  lady  not  of 
"  their  set"  is  on  a  certain  part  of  the  floor — the  altering  of  the 
arrangements  of  the  house  to  suit  the  habits  and  wishes  of  a  few — 

O 

the  expensive  and  glaring  ostentation — and  the  thousand  trifling 
tyrannies  and  impertinences  by  which  fashionable  supremacy,  at 
Newport  and  Saratoga,  is,  each  year,  more  and  more  asserted  and 
maintained,  form  an  evil  which  it  seems  amazing  should  have 
existed  so  long.  "We  have  annually  tried  to  find  time  for  calling 
attention  to  this  subject,  and  one  of  the  chief  reasons  for  our 
eagerly  copying  the  article  we  speak  of,  last  week,  was  its  able 
picturing  of  this  very  oligarchy  so  extraordinary  in  a  republic. 


USAGES,  ETIQUETTE,  ETC, 

THAT  etiquette  in  London  need  not  necessarily  be  etiquette  in 
New  York,  is  an  assumption  that  our  adolescent  country  is  now 
old  enough  to  make.  The  absence  of  a  Queen,  a  Court,  and 
Orders  of  Nobility,  gives  us  a  freedom  from  trammel,  in  such 
matters,  which  would  warrant  quite  a  different  school  of  polite 
usages  and  observances  •  of  ceremony.  Yet,  up  to  the  present 
time,  we  have  followed  the  English  punctilios  of  etiquette,  with 
almost  as  close  a  fidelity  as  if  we  were  a  suburb  of  London. 

The  almost,  in  the  last  sentence,  points  to  no  very  definite 
difference-  —but  there  is  one  little  beginning  of  a  very  good  novelty 
of  usage,  which  our  distant  readers  may  be  amused  to  hear  of, 
perhaps,  but  which  we  should  like  to  see  ripen  into  an  American 
speciality  of  politeness.  We  refer  to  the  manner  in  which 
"  distinguished  strangers"  are  looked  up  and  invited  to  parties. 
Let  us  detail  the  process,  and  the  position  of  the  gentleman  who 
holds  the  stranger's  key  to  New  York  society,  with  the  circum 
stantiality  which  the  custom,  of  which  it  is  possibly  the  basis, 
properly  deserves. 

The  first  thing  which  a  lady  does,  who  intends  to  give  a 
fashionable  party  in  New  York,  is  to  send  for  "  Mr.  Brown." 


322  FIRST    STEP    FOR    A    PARTY. 

If  there  are  any  of  the  more  distant  of  our  fifty  thousand  readers 
who  have  never  heard  of  Mr.  Brown,  it  is  quite  time  they  had. 
This  out-door  Manager  of  the  Stylish  Balls  of  our  great  city,  is  a 
fine-looking  and  portly  person,  who,  in  a  certain  sense,  is  Usher 
also  to  the  most  select  portal  of  "  another  and  better  world," 
being  the  Sexton  of  Grace  Church,  the  most  fashionable  and 
exclusive  of  our  metropolitan  "  Courts  of  Heaven."  Mr.  Brown, 
we  should  add,  is  a  person  of  strong  good  sense,  natural  air  of 
command,  and  as  capable  of  giving  advice,  upon  the  details  of  a 
party,  as  was  ever  the  famous  "Beau  Nash,"  of  Bath,  to  whose 
peculiar  functions  Mr.  Brown's  are  the  nearest  modern  approxi 
mation. 

Mr.  Brown  comes,  at  the  summons,  and  takes  a  look  at  the 
premises.  Whether  the  supper  is  to  be  laid,  up  stairs  or  down ; 
where  the  music  is  to  be  bestowed,  to  be  best  heard  and  take  the 
least  room  ;  what  restaurateur,  confectioner  and  florist  are  to  be 
employed  ;  where  to  find  the  extra  china,  silver  and  waiters — these 
are  but  the  minor  details  upon  which  he  gives  his  professional 
counsel.  He  is  then  consulted  as  to  the  guests.  His  knowledge 
of  who  is  well  or  ill,  who  is  in  mourning  for  a  death  or  a  failure, 
who  has  friends  staying  with  them,  and  what  new  belle  has  come 
out  with  such  beauty  or  fortune  as  makes  it  worth  while  to  send 
her  family  a  card,  is  wonderfully  exact ;  and,  of  course,  he  can 
look  over  the  list  of  the  invited  and  foretell  the  probable 
refusals  and  acceptances,  and  suggest  the  possible  and  advisable 
enlargements  of  acquaintances.  But  this  is  not  all,  and  we  have 
mentioned  thus  much,  only  to  explain  the  combining  circumstances 
that  give  Mr.  Brown  his  weight  of  authority.  Besides  all  this, 
he  makes  a  business  of  keeping  himself  "  well  booked  up,"  as  to 
the  strangers  in  town.  How  he  does  it  we  have  no  idea ;  but, 


MR.  BROWN.  323 


upon  the  quality,  manners,  place  of  belonging,  means,  encum 
brances,  and  objects  of  travel,  of  all  the  marked  guests  at  the 
principal  Hotels,  he  can  give  you  list  and  programme,  with  a 
degree  of  prompt  correctness  that  is  as  surprising  as  it  is  useful. 
Of  course  it  is  the  list  from  which  invitations  are  made,  and  (as 
no  man  who  can  afford  to  give  a  Ball  can  afford  also  to  make 
morning  calls)  Mr.  Brown  takes  the  cards  of  the  father  of  the 
family  and  leaves  them  "  in  person"  on  the  distinguished 
strangers.  A  man  of  more  utility,  or  in  the  distribution  of  more 
influence,  than  our  friend  Mr.  Brown,  could  hardly  be  picked  from 
the  New  York  Directory.  It  will  explain,  by  the  way,  a  pheno 
menon  about  which  questions  are  constantly  asked,  to  mention 
that  the  piercing  whistle,  which  is  heard  every  few  moments 
outside  the  door  during  a  fashionable  party,  is  Mr.  Brown's 
summons  to  the  servant  standing  within.  His  own  stately  figure, 
wrapped  in  his  voluminous  overcoat,  is  stationed  on  the  front  step 
throughout  the  evening,  and  he  opens  carriage  doors,  summons 
the  house  servant  with  his  whistle,  and  ushers  in  the  guests,  with 
a  courteous  manner  and  a  polite  word  that  would  well  become  the 
nobleman  who  is  the  "  Gold  Stick  in  Waiting"  at  the  Court  of 
Her  Majesty.  When  the  party  breaks  up,  he  knows  where 
stands  every  body's  carriage,  and  it  is  called  up,  as  each  one 
appears  on  the  threshold,  with  an  order  and  prompt  readiness  that 
is  no  small  improvement  upon  the  confusion  and  cold-catching  of 
times  gone  by. 

Our  readers  will  perhaps  have  agreed,  as  they  have  kept  along 
with  us,  that  Mr.  Brown  is  "  an  excellent  Institution."  We 
should  never  be  sure,  of  course,  of  getting  so  able  and  discreet 
a  man  to  succeed  him,  were  his  duties  fairly  organized,  (by  the 
time  of  his  deprecated  decease,)  into  a  regular  .profession ;  but 


324  CUSTOM    OF    HOSPITALITY. 


the  experiment  would  be  worth  while.  Hospitality  to  strangers  u 
a  principle^  for  the  exercise  of  which  we  should  be  proud  to  see  cu 
regular  system  first  invented  in  America.  The  Hotels  are  never 
without  agreeable  people,  whom  it  would  be  delightful  to  be  able, 
habitually  to  approach,  (via  Brown,)  and  so  spice  and  vary  our 
society,  while  we  treat  strangers  with  a  courtesy  and  kindness  that 
would  do  us  honor. 

It  is  not  without  proper  modesty,  and  deference  to  higher 
authority,  of  course,  that  we  offer  the  foregoing  facts  and 
suggestions  as  topics  of  conversation. 


ETIQUETTE,  USAGE,  ETC, 

AN  answer  to  the  following  letter  might  be  given  among 
"  notices  to  correspondents,"  but,  as  it  touches  a  general 
principle  worth  saying  a  word  upon,  we  quote  it  as  a  text  to  a 
little  sermon  on  propositions  of  acquaintance.  A  "  subscriber" 
thus  addresses  us  : — 


"  Will  you  give  me  your  opinion  upon  a  point  which  has  caused  no  little 
discussion  in  our  family  circle  ?  A  party  of  ladies  are  passing  through  New 
York.  While  stopping  at  a  hotel,  we  call  upon  them ;  they  are  strangers 
personally,  but  connected  in  a  family  relation,  which  makes  our  call  upon 
them  desirable.  We  find  them  out,  and  leave  our  cards.  They  leave  town 
immediately,  but  send  cards,  with  written  messages  of  regret.  We  subse 
quently  visit  the  town  in  which  they  reside.  Shall  we  send  cards  apprising 
them  of  our  visit,  call  upon  them,  or  wait  for  them  to  discover  it  by  some 
sort  of  magnetism  ? 

Being  an  old  man,  and  rather  antedeluvian  in  my  ideas  of  etiquette,  one 
daughter  governs  me  sometimes,  and  then  again  another.  Upon  this  point  I 
agreed  to  leave  the  adjustment  of  the  affair  to  your  decision,  to  which  my 
daughters  both  agreed,  having  full  confidence  in  your  judgment. 

Yours,  truly 

A  CONSTANT  SUBSCRIBER." 


326  IMPORTED    SUPERFLUITIES. 

To  get  rid  of  imported  superfluities  of  etiquette  is  the  first  thing 
to  do,  (we  venture  to  premise,)  for  the  proper  understanding  or 
regulation  of  American  politeness.  Things  are  right  or  necessary 
in  London  and  Paris,  which  are  wrong  or  ridiculous  in  New  York. 
Most  of  our  books  on  etiquette,  moreover,  being  foreign  reprints, 
or  compiled  from  foreign  authorities,  the  ordinary  notions  of 
politeness, even  in  America,  are  form*  upon  the  standards  which 
regulate  Courts  and  aristocracies. 

In  countries  where  there  are  barriers  in  society  which  cannot 
be  passed,  there  is  reason  in  putting  many  difficulties  and  ceremo 
nies  in  the  way  of  making  new  acquaintances.  A  shop-keeper, 
or  tradesman  of  any  description,  is  looked  upon  in  London,  for 
instance,  as  an  impossible  visiting  acquaintance  for  any  one  of  the 
gentry.  A  merchant  who  is  a  millionaire,  and  who  is  just 
tolerated  in  Court  society  for  his  immense  wealth,  is  an  inaccessi 
ble  acquaintance  for  smaller  merchants.  Artists  are  courted  and 
invited,  and  their  wives  rejected  and  overlooked  by  the  same 
circles.  Literary  men  are,  individually,  on  a  footing  with  nobles 
and  diplomatists,  while  their  relatives  are  inferiors  whom  they 
would  not  dare  to  introduce  to  these  their  noble  intimates. 
Those  who  live  upon  their  incomes,  and  those  who  live  by 
industry  in  business,  are  two  classes  impassably  separated.  It  is 
understood  and  admitted,  that  it  would  be  an  inconvenience  and 
an  impropriety  for  the  barriers  between  these  divided  ranks  to  be 
crossed.  The  etiquettes  and  ceremonies,  therefore,  which,  in  old 
countries,  form  the  trench  of  non-acquaintance,  are  to  prevent 
contact  which  the  custom  of  ages  has  decreed  to  be  unfit  and 
irreconcilable. 

That  books  of  etiquette,  based  upon  these  mouldy  distinctions, 
are  unsuitable  guides  for  the  politeness  of  our  young  and  fresh 


MAKING    ACQUAINTANCES.  337 

republic,  the  reader  need  not  be  told.  Retaining  all  the  common 
sense,  and  all  the  consideration  for  others,  which  European 
etiquette  contains,  there  is  still  a  large  proportion  of  rubbish  and 
absurdity,  which  we  should  at  once  set  aside — our  slowness  to  do 
this,  by  the  way,  being  the  national  fault  which  Lord  Carlisle,  in 
his  late  lecture  on  America,  described  as  "  a  tame  and  implicit 
submission  to  custom  and  opinion." 

To  our  correspondent's  query  we  would  say,  (briefly)  that  any 
proposition  of  acquaintance,  from  one  respectable  American  to 
another,  is  a  compliment  to  the  receiver.  No  such  proposition  is 
likely  to  be  made,  except  by  such  as  know  the  proper  conditions 
of  acquaintance  to  exist,  nor  is  it  likely  to  be  declined,  except  by 
those  who  are  so  doubtful  of  their  own  position  that  they  fear  to 
receive  acquaintances  except  through  the  medium  of  those  above 
them.  By  any  standard  that  can  be  tolerated  in  a  republic,  (we 
should  suppose,)  it  is  perfectly  proper  to  leave  a  card,  or  to  send 
a  card  with  an  invitation,  to  any  one  whom  you  may  wish,  or 
think  it  would  be  reasonable,  to  propose  acquaintance.  One  or 
the  other  of  two  people  must  make  the  advance ;  and  we  fancy 
that  the  probability  of  a  first  step  of  this  kind  being  repelled— 
compliment  as  it  is — is  very  much  overrated.  The  one  who 
declined  it,  if  it  ever  occurred,  would  be  the  one,  probably, 'whose 
station  in  society  was  the  least  secure — (reasonable  equality  of 
apparent  respectability,  and  no  covert  objection  between  the 
parties,  of  course,  presupposed.) 

The  same  reasoning  applies,  we  think,  to  speaking  without 
introductions.  Any  two  persons  who  have  a  mutual  friend  might 
not  be  suitable  acquaintances,  in  England — but  they  are,  in 
America.  Two  guests  at  a  party  given  by  a  third  person,  are 
sufficiently  introduced,  for  this  country,  by  the  fact  of  meeting 


328  IMPROVEMENT    OF   BARRIER. 


under  the  roof  of  a  fellow-countryman  who  invited  bofch  as  his 
equals.  As  they  stand  together  in  the  crowd,  or  have  opportunity 
for  a  polite  service,  one  to  the  other,  it  is  absurd,  as  well  as 
injurious  to  the  master  of  the  house,  to  make  the  party  stupid  by 
waiting  for  formal  introduction  before  any  act  of  civility  or 
agreeableness.  America  should  improve  on  that  point  of  English 
etiquette.  Our  correspondent's  more  particular  inquiries  are 
easily  answered,  according  to  the  principles  we  have  thus  laid 
down.  The  first  call  upon  those  who  had  arrived  from  another 
city,  was  a  courteous  propriety.  It  is  always  such,  to  call, 
unintroduced,  upon  strangers  in  town,  with  motives  of  hospitality. 
The  call  was  as  courteously  acknowledged,  and,  on  going  to  the 
city  where  those  lived  who  had  thus  responded  to  their  politeness, 
the  residents  should  have  been  apprised  of  the  arrival  of  the 
strangers,  by  cards  enclosed  in  an  envelope,  or  left  at  the  door. 
The  response  is  thus  delicately  left  at  the  option  of  the  persons 
called  on  ;  but  the  case  would  be  very  rare  in  which  it  were  not 
acknowledged  by  an  immediate  call,  or  a  note  explanatory  of 
illness  or  other  hindrance. 

Fastidiousness,  for  a  republic,  (we  may  add,)  is  quite 
sufficiently  guarded,  by  the  easy  falling  off,  from  acquaintance,  of 
those  who  find  that  they  are  not  congenial.  Where  the  only 
distinctions  are  made  by  difference  in  character  and  refinement, 
the  barriers  are  better  placed  inside  than  outside  an  introduction. 


SOCIETY,  THIS  WINTER, 

THERE  is  a  new  feature  in  the  gay  life  of  New  York — one  of 
those  endless  varieties  of  lighter  shading  which  compensate  for  the 
as  endless  sameness  of  the  main  outlines  of  society — and,  while 
the  novelty  is,  in  itself,  a  refreshing  improvement,  we  are  not  sure 
that  the  increasing  knowingness,  of  which  it  is  but  one  pencilling 
in  many,  will  better,  altogether,  the  tone  of  our  American 
picture  of  gayety.  We  refer  to  the  definite  separation,  which 
has  come  about  this  winter,  between  Conversation-doin  and 
Boys-and-girls-dom — the  prevalence  of  soirees  where  "  the  children 
are  not  asked,"  and  of  balls  where  "  none  are  invited  but  those 
who  dance." 

Society  has  hitherto  been  a  game  with  but  one  stake  in  it — 
matrimony ;  and,  that  it  should  be  unattractive,  to  those  for  whom 
success  had  removed  this  only  interest  in  its  chances,  was, 
perhaps,  primitively,  quite  as  well.  Young  mothers  went  to  bed 
instead  of  going  to  balls,  and  young  fathers  rested  from  the  cares 
of  business,  instead  of  adding  a  gay  man's  waking  night  to  a 
busy  man's  waking  morning — a  "  burning  of  candle  at  both  ends" 
which  could  ill  be  afforded.  The  only  sufferers,  by  this  under 
done  state  of  society,  have  been  the  intellectually  gay^  who  need 


330  CHANGE    IN    GAYETY. 


evening  parties  for  the  interchange  of  wit  and  intelligence,  and  to 
whom  the  conversation  of  a  New  York  ball  was  a  six-hours' 
scream  of  half-heard  sentences,  against  a  band  of  music  and  two 
or  three  hundred  elevated  juvenile  voices.  Those,  of  course, 
whose  pleasure  in  vicinity  and  utterance  depended  at  all  on 
intelligibleness,  either  of  words  or  sympathies,  were  soon  weary 
of  balls  ;  and,  as  there  was  no  other  form  of  gayety,  (except 
"  bull-and-bear"  dinners,  where  stocks  and  stomachs  were  the 
only  exchanges  of  magnetism,)  they  "  gave  up  society." 

Owing  immediately  to  what,  we  could  not  positively  say — 
possibly,  to  two  or  three  brilliant  women  who  established 
appreciative  circles  which  must  needs  have  a  sphere  in  which  to 
revolve,  but  owing  remotely,  no  doubt,  to  the  rapid  Westwardizing 
of  European  refinement — there  was  an  understood  recognition,  in 
the  early  part  of  this  winter,  of  the  need  of  some  more  adolescent 
variety  in  the  children's  high  life  of  New  York.  The  season 
opened  with  what  was  one  result  of  this  new  impulse — a  round 
of  balls  for  dancers  only.  The  more  definite  indication,  however, 
was  a  card  issued  for  a  series  of  four  parties,  on  successive 
Tuesdays,  at  the  house  of  the  most  tasteful  and  accomplished 
leader  of  New  York  society — at  which  there  was  no  dancing  and 
no  band  of  music,  no  set  supper  beyond  an  elegantly-served  table 
to  which  the  guests  resorted  at  pleasure,  and  no  single  people 
invited  of  the  class  who  dance  only.  This  was  a  most  favorable 
and  successful  overture  to  a  new  era  ;  for,  more  brilliant  and 
agreeable  parties,  than  these  four,  have  never  been  given  in  this 
city,  and  the  admiration  of  the  tone  and  management  of  them 
was  universal.  The  Conversation  Epoch  of  society,  we  may 
fairly  say,  is  begun. 

That  our  new  shape  of  gayety  will  retain,  for  a  while,  some 


SOCIETY   TONE    OF   VOICE.  331 


colour  of  the  former,  is  to  be  expected.  There  are  'teen-ish 
peculiarities,  which  foreigners  observe  in  our  manners,  which  will 
not  all  vanish  with  the  disunion  of  school-room  and  drawing-room. 
But  there  is  one,  which  has  arisen  from  the  long-endured 
disproportion  between  the  bands  of  music  and  the  apartments  in 
which  they  are  heard — a  society  tone  of  voice  most  unmusically 
loud — to  which  it  is,  perhaps,  worth  while  to  call  attention 
without  leaving  it  to  the  slower  correction  of  removed  first 
causes.  As  most  persons  know,  although  they  may  not  have 
given  shape  to  the  idea,  it  is  much  more  difficult  to  be  agreeable 
on  a  strained  key  of  the  voice,  than  when  conversing  in  a  natural 
tone  and  without  need  of  repetition.  The  effort  and  the  artificial 
cadences  affect  the  character  of  the  thoughts  expressed.  All  the 
tendrils  of  meaning,  in  which  lie  the  grace  of  what  is  said,  are 
cut  off  for  the  sake  of  brevity,  and  conversation  is  reduced  to  its 
mere  stem — a  poor  representation  of  what  its  fair  growth  should 
exhibit.  It  is  the  commonest  remark  of  a  foreigner,  that  "  well- 
bred  people  in  this  country  talk  singularly  loud  in  society,"  and 
this  might  be  variously  interpreted — for,  while  it  certainly 
expresses  the  innocence  of  those  who  are  not  afraid  to  be  over 
heard,  it  might  be  understood,  also,  as  a  dread  of  betraying,  by 
too  timid  a  tone,  a  consciousness  of  superior  society.  A  hint  on 
such  a  subject,  is  enough,  however,  and  the  charming  ease  and 
variety  of  conversation  in  which  the  meaning  is  aided  by  the  play 
of  tones,  will  be  felt  by  every  lady,  the  very  first  time  she  gives 
her  attention  to  the  experiment. 


SHAWL  ARISTOCRACY, 

THE  degree  to  which  ladies  care  more  for  each  others  opinion 
of  their  gentility  of  appearance,  than  for  the  opinion  of  gentlemen, 
on  the  same  point,  is,  at  least,  equal  to  the  difference  between  a 
French  shawl  and  a  Cashmere — one  worth  fifty  dollars  and  the 
other  worth  from  five  hundred  to  a  thousand — for,  though  no  man 
knows  the  imitation  from  the  real  shawl,  as  he  sees  it  worn,  a 
fashionable  woman  without  a  Cashmere,  feels  like  a  recruit 
unarmed  and  unequipped.  The  pilgrimage  to  Mecca,  which 
entitles  to  the  privilege  of  wearing  the  green  turban,  would  not, 
by  the  majority  of  women,  be  considered  too  much  to  undergo  for 
this  distinction — recognizable,  though  it  be,  by  female  eyes  only. 
"  -She  had  on  a  real  Cashmere"  would  be  sweeter,  to  numbers  of 
ladies,  as  a  mention  when  absent,  than  "  she  had  a  beautiful 
expression  about  her  mouth,"  or  "  she  had  such  loveable 
manners,"  or  "  she  is  always  trying  to  make  somebody  happier," 
or  "she  is  too  contented  at  home  to  care  much  about  society." 
It  is,  moreover,  a  portable  certificate  of  character  and  position. 
A  lady  "  with  a  real  Cashmere  on,"  would  be  made  way  for,  at  a 
counter  of  Stewart's — differently  received  when  introducing  herself 
at  a  first  call — sooner  offered  the  head  seat  in  a  pew — differently 


ART    OF    WEARING    A    SHAWL.  333 

criticised,  as  to  manners,  and  very  differently  estimated  in  a  guess 
as  to  who  she  might  be,  in  any  new  city  or  place  of  public 
resort  where  she  chanced  to  be  a  stranger.  The  prices  of  the 
best  Cashmeres  vary  from  four  hundred  to  fifteen  hundred  dollars.* 
There  are  two  plausible  arguments  in  their  favor,  usually  pleaded 
by  ladies — first,  that  they  fall  in  more  graceful  folds  than  any 
other  shawl,  and  have  an  "  undefinable  air  of  elegance,7'  and, 
second,  that,  as  they  never  wear  out,  they  are  heir-looms  which 
can  be  bequeathed  to  daughters.  The  difference  between  a 
thousand  dollar  shawl  given  to  a  daughter  after  twenty  years' 
wear,  and  the  same  thousand  dollars  invested  for  a  daughter  and 
given  to  her  with  twenty  years'  interest,  puts  this  latter  argument 
upon  its  truest  ground;  but  one  word  as  to  the  superior 
becoming-ness  of  Cashmeres. 

There  are  very  few  women,  out  of  France,  who  wear  any 
shawl  becomingly — for  it  requires  either  the  taste  of  an  artistic 
mind,  or  a  special  education,  to  know  its  effects  and  arrange  it  to 
show  the  figure  to  advantage — but  a  Cashmere,  by  the  very 
pliability  which  is  subservient  to  grace,  betrays  awkwardness  or  a 
bad  figure  just  as  readily.  For  a  round  back,  flat  chest,  or  arms 
held  at  inelegant  angles,  there  is  more  concealment  in  the  French 
shawl,  than  in  the  slighter  tissue  of  an  India  one  ;  but,  either  way, 
we  fancy,  the  difference  is  too  trifling  to  be  recognizable  by  one 
person  in  a  thousand.  As  to  the  beauty  of  color  and  texture,  we 
are  very  sure  that,  to  men's  eyes,  the  dull  complexion  of  a 

*  It  is  a  curious  foreshadowing  of  the  anticipation  of  income  by  which  such 
expensive  articles  are  sometimes  obtained,  that  the  finest  and  costliest  of 
these  shawls  are  made  from  the  down  of  the  lambs  taken  from  the  womb 
before  birth. 


334        TRUE  VALUE  OF  A  CASHMERE. 


Cashmere  conveys  the  impression  of  a  cover-all,  grown  somewhat, 
shabby,  and  which  the  wearer  would  not  have  put  on  if  she  had 
"expected  to  meet  anybody."  There  is  not  one  lady  in  a 
hundred,  of  those  who  own  Cashmeres,  who  do  not  look  better 
dressed,  (to  most  female  and  all  male  eyes,)  in  any  other  out-of- 
door  covering. 

As  our  city  readers  know,  there  has  been  a  three  days' 
exhibition  and  auction  of  Cashmere  shawls,  in  the  large  hall  over 
the  theatre  at  Niblo's.  The  vessel  in  which  this  precious  cargo 
was  being  conveyed  to  England,  was  abandoned  at  sea  by  the 
crew,  and,  an  American  ship  securing  the  cargo  and  bringing  it 
to  this  country,  the  goods  were  sold  by  the  British  Consul,  to 
arrange  salvage  and  remit  the  remainder  to  right  owners.  The 
shawls  were  hung  irpon  lines,  up  and  down  the  immense  hall,  and, 
between  these  aisles  of  Cashmere,  the  fashionable  ladies  of  the 
city  promenaded,  with  close  scrutiny  and  comparison  of  opinion — 
(and  with  a  degree  of  keen  interest  that  we  should  like  to  see 
given  to  a  gallery  of  pictures!)  Having,  ourself,  fortunately 
secured  the  company  of  Mr.  Flandin,  who  was  the  only  importer 
of  Cashmeres  to  this  country  for  twenty  or  thirty  years,  (and 
whose  eye,  for  better  reasons,  is  familiar  with  the  Parisian  grace 
of  a  shawl's  wear,  and  its  value  in  becomingness,)  we  took  the 
opportunity  to  enrich  our  knowledge  in  the  matter.  After  having 
all  the  advantages  of  the  India  fabric  pointed  out  to  us,  however, 
and  hearing,  from  our  well-informed  friend,  what  class  were  the 
purchasers,  and  what  made  the  difference  of  hundreds  of  dollars 
in  the  cost  of  shawls  which  to  a  common  eye  would  seem  of  equal 
value,  we  came  away  satisfied  that  a  better  present  could  be  made 
with  five  hundred  dollars,  than  to  bury  it  in  a  Cashmere  shawl — 


THINGS    OF    MORE    VALUE.  335 


that  things  better  worth  having  could  be  had  for  a  quarter  of  the 
money — and  that  the  arbitrary  aristocracy,  which  is  based  upon 
the  wearing  of  them,  is  one  of  those  illusory  valuations  which 
this  common-sense  age  is  constantly  on  the  look-out  to  put 
down. 


SUGGESTION   FOR   THE   OPERA, 

THE  world  is  weaning.  It  is  necessary,  now,  that  there 
should  be  reason,  even  in  its  amusements.  We  know  nothing 
that  so  marks  the  time  in  which  we  live,  as  the  extension  of  a 
certain  business  prejudice — the  prejudice  against  things  that 
"  don't  pay" — into  the  hitherto  irrational  regions  of  display  and 
pleasure.  It  is  the  fashion  in  conversation  to  ingeniously  dissect 
the  usages  of  society,  and  tell  what  is  "  absurd" — what  is  "  a 
bore."  Those  who  entertain  and  give  parties  are  making  inquiry, 
not  where  to  get  the  pinkest  champagne  and  the  largest  foie  gras, 
but  how  to  get  together  the  agreeable  and  the  worth  being 
agreeable  to.  The  young  men  "  see  no  reason"  in  the  prejudice 
against  God's  gift  of  beard.  The  ladies  are  beginning  to  "  see 
no  reason"  in  not  protecting  their  ancles  against  mud  and  wet, 
by  short  dresses  and  pantalettes  in  the  country.  There  is  a 
whisper  that  there  is  no  "  reason"  in  accommodating  New  York 
hours  to  the  convenience  of  the  English  Parliament — the  going 
to  a  party  at  midnight  being  a  London  fashion  of  commencing 
gayety  at  the  adjournment  hour  of  the  Lords  and  Commons. 
The  creeping-in  fashion  of  the  Tyrolese  hat  is  a  struggle  for 
some  reasonable  becomingness  in  that  article  of  stereotyped 


OPERA    NONSENSE.  337 


absurdity.  Anything  may  be  done  now — even  an  etiquette 
violated  or  a  usage  dispensed  with — if  the  innovator  can  show  a 
reason.  Throughout  society  and  the  world,  just  now,  we  mean  to 
say,  there  is  a  war  against  prejudices,  and  in  favor  of  bringing 
every  thing  to  its  best  use  and  simply  true  valuation. 

In  addressing  ourself,  (as  we  trust  our  readers  credit  us  for 
usually  striving  to  do,)  to  this  spirit  of  the  age,  we  feel  called 
upon  to  recognize  the  amount  of  real  interest  given  to  some 
things  which,  (in  Superficial-solemn-dom,)  are  classed  as  "  trifles  ;" 
and  among  which,  without  further  generalizing  and  defining,  are 
the  arrangements  for  the  fashionable  Italian  Opera.  We  have  a 
suggestion  to  make  as  to  the  usages  of  Opera-going,  with  a  view 
to  getting  rid  of  such  portions  of  its  nonsense  as  can  be  dispensed 
with — much  of  what  the  wise  call  "  Opera  nonsense,"  being  the 
respectable  shadows  of  things  the  world  will  have,  and  have  its 
way  in,  and  with  which,  of  course,  we  are  not  inclined  uselessly  to 
quarrel. 

To  come  at  once  to  our  point — there  is  a  class  of  the  most 
refined  and  respectable  people,  who  would  like  to  go  very 
frequently  to  the  Opera,  but  who  are  prevented  from  so  doing,  by 
the  usage  necessity  of  going  in  full  dress.  The  Opera  being 
partly  a  large  evening  party  and  partly  an  entertainment  of 
music,  the  predominance  of  full  dress  tacitly  administers  that 
sort  of  rebuke  to  a  less  ceremonious  costume,  that  the  wearer  is 
made  to  feel  uncomfortable — uncomfortable  enough,  that  is  to 
say,  to  make  her  unwilling  to  go  again  except  in  full  dress.  But 
— as  a  lady  in  full  dress  must  have,  1st,  a  cavalier  in  body-coat 
and  white  gloves ;  2d,  a  carriage  of  her  own  or  a  hired  one  at  two 
dollars  the  evening  ;  3d,  a  hair-dresser  at  a  dollar  or  a  head-dres? 
at  five  dollars  and  upwards;  4th,  shoulders  whose  beauty  and 
15 


338  PROPOSAL    OF    NEW    ETIQUETTE. 


salubrity  will  bear  exposure ;  and  5th,  spirits  to  encounter 
general  conversation  and  slight  acquaintances  between  the  Acts — 
there  are  many  of  the  best  people  in  town  and  truest  lovers  of 
music  who  feel  that,  at  this  cost  and  trouble,  the  Opera  "  don't 
pay."  Many  a  charming  woman,  not  very  well  or  in  very  good 
spirits,  would  like  to  go  and  sit  through  an  Opera,  if  it  were 
simply  to  put  on  her  shawl  and  visiting  bonnet,  tax  her  husband 
only  to  take  his  hat  and  lay  aside  his  cigar,  and  go  and  return  in 
an  unblushing  omnibus.  Many  an  invalid  would  be  delighted  and 
refreshed  with  an  Opera,  if  she  could  escape  attention  while 
listening  to  it.  There  do  exist,  we  are  persuaded,  those  "  fabulous 
beings,"  women  who  wish  to  see  and  net  be  seen — (some  evenings, 
perhaps  we  should  qualifiedly  say,  and  under  some  circumstances) 
— and  for  these,  and  others  who  have  the  same  feeling  for  twenty 
other  reasons,  an  Opera  which  is  full  dress  all  over  the  house,  is  a 
badly-arranged  public  amusement.  Their  patronage,  moreover — 
not  over-stated,  we  should  say,  at  a  hundred  seats  a  night — is  lost 
to  the  Manager. 

Of  course  we  are  incapable  of  the  aggravation  of  speaking  of  an 
evil  except  to  suggest  a  remedy.  With  nothing  to  propose  to  the 
Manager  or  the  Committee,  we  suggest,  to  more  paramount 
Fashionable  Usage,  that  the  parquet  of  the  Opera  should  be  a 
place  for  demi-toilette — that  ladies  who  appear  there  should  be 
considered  as  intending  to  escape  attention,  and  not  be  visited 
except  by  previous  understanding — that  shawls,  bonnets,  and 
high-necked  dresses  should  be  the  parquet  dress  for  ladies,  and 
frock-coats  and  colored  gloves  the  parquet  dress  for  gentlemen— 
and  that  all  who  appear,  there  and  thus,  should  be  Operatically 
"  not  at  home" — exempt,  that  is  to  say,  from  all  leavings  of  seat 
for  interchange  of  civilities,  and  all  criticisms  of  toilette.  The 


FREEDOM    OF    PARQUET.  339 

place  itself  favours  this  difference  of  costume  from  that  of  the  sofas 
and  boxes — central  as  the  parquet  is,  the  heads  alone  being 
visible,  in,  a  confused  medley,  from  the  other  parts  of  the  house, 
and  a  person  being  likelier  to  escape  observation  in  this  closely- 
packed  mass,  than  even  in  the  amphitheatre  of  the  third  tier.  It 
is,  also,  (we  should  say  to  any  lady  friend,)  too  close  and  chance 
a  neighbourhood  for  low-necked  dresses  and  short  sleeves,  and 
what  we  propose  is  therefore  more  proper,  besides  being  consistent 
with  all  foreign  usage  in  such  matters. 

To  be  able  to  enjoy  the  Opera  with  or  without  its  society,  is  the 
freedom  we  think  desirable.  We  have  not  mentioned  the 
convenience  it  would  be  .to  a  gentleman,  who  might  like  to  slip 
away  from  other  engagements  for  an  hour — and  hear  an  Act  of  an 
Opera  and  take  a  look  at  the  array  of  beauty — without  the  chance 
of  seeming,  by  his  dress,  not  to  belong  to  the  class  which  compose 
the  audience.  Strangers,  too,  in  full  dress  and  without  an 
acquaintance  in  the  house,  look  awkwardly — for  there  is  an 
incongruity  between  white  gloves  and  nobody  to  speak  to,  which 
colored  gloves,  some  how  or  other,  do  not  suggest ;  and  of  course 
there  should  be  a  part  of  the  house  (of  not  inferior  dignity  or 
price)  in  which  the  latter  is  "the  only  wear." 

We  leave  our  readers  to  follow  out  the  rationale  of  the  matter. 


COMING  OPERA  SEASON, 

IN  a  visit  to  town  which  we  made — (like  a  cook's  look  into  the 
oven) — in  August,  we  used  our  one  evening  among  the  bricks,  for 
the  enjoyment  of  what  is  not  found  among  the  green  leaves — an 
Opera.  Tedesco  at  the  Broadway  was,  for  that  time  of  year,  like 
woodcock  out  of  season,  most  inviting  ;  and,  (whether  from  the 
rarity,  or  from  its  being  the  only  luxury  we  could  think  of  within 
municipal  limits,  or  from  the  excellence  of  the  Havanese  Dudu, 
or  from  the  verdant  freshness  of  interest  with  which  we  sat  down 
to  it,)  we  never  enjoyed  Opera  mOre — no,  not  in  Paris  or  London. 
Those  delicious  low  notes  of  Tedesco 's,  certainly  sweep  and  air 
the  seldom  visited  apartments  of  the  soul's  ear  most  deliciously. 
We  are  not  bent  now,  however,  upon  writing  a  criticism.  We 
say  nothing  of  orchestra  or  chorus.  The  spirit  which  troubles 
the  Bethesda  of  our  inkstand  at  present,  is  a  small  two-line 
notice  which  we  saw  upon  the  bill  of  the  play,  that  evening,  and 
of  which  we  have  lost  the  precise  words,  though  the  following  was 
the  meaning  : — It  notified  the  public,  that,  at  this  Opera,  there 
were  no  exclusive  seats,  nor  other  privileged  arrangements  likely  to 
give  offence.  However  phrased,  it  was  meant  to  draw  a  distinc 
tion  between  this  Opera  and  the  Opera  which  had  been  the  scene 


HOSTILITY    TO    WHITE    GLOVES.  341 


of  the  riot,  and  was,  of  course,  a  popular  appeal  to  what  is  thought 
to  be  an  existing  feeling  on  the  subject. 

Now,  like  love,  disease,  fire  and  war,  the  beginnings  of  popular 
discontents  are  small,  and  may  be  quelled  or  diverted  if  taken 
early.  Obsta  principiis  is  an  old  Latin  rule  with  which  a  man 
might  almost  govern  the  world.  It  really  seems  to  us  worth 
while  to  enquire,  (Astor-Place  Riot  and  the  subsequent  expres 
sions  of  public  feeling  considered,)  whether  there  is  not,  now 
growing,  in  the  popular  feeling,  a  needless  and  unreasonable 
hostility  to  the  wealthier  class,  and  whether  its  accidental  causes 
had  not  better  be  analyzed — explained  by  the  press — and  removed, 
as  far  as  possible,  in  the  arrangements  of  public  places. 

"We  speak  of  a  needless  hostility,  for  we  are  yet  to  learn  that, 
though  this  is  a  free  country  as  to  religion  and  franchise,  it  is  not 
free  as  to  dress,  equipage,  or  display.  We  are  yet  to  learn  that 
envy  is  so  rank  a  weed  in  republics  that  a  man  must  conceal  his 
wealth  to  escape  persecution.  We  are"  yet  to  learn  that,  in  liberal 
America,  a  citizen  is  not  free  to  spend  his  money  as  he  pleases, 
glove  himself  to  his  fancy,  wear  his  beard  to  his  liking,  choose 
whom  he  likes,  or  whom  he  can,  for  friends  and  acquaintances, 
and  purchase  whatever  is  for  sale  in  the  way  of  opportunities  for 
public  amusement.  And  yet,  to  show  how  such  matters  may  be, 
see  how  it  was  in  England,  only  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago  ! 
Reresby,  in  his  Historical  Memoranda,  and  under  date  of  1685, 
says : — 

"  Gentlemen  were  now  in  a  most  unprecedented  manner  assaulted  in  the 
very  streets ;  one  had  a  powder  thrown  into  his  eyes  which  deprived  him 
of  sight ;  another  had  his  throat  cut  by  two  men,  though  neither  of  these 
gentlemen  had  given  the  least  visible  provocation  or  offense  to  the 


342  PRIVILEGED    SEATS. 


Civilization  is  too  far  advanced,  and,  we  repeat,  America  too 
liberal,  to  allow  of  any  proscription  of  a  class,  high  or  low,  for 
reasons  not  connected  with  law  or  morals.  Were  it  otherwise, 
the  country  would  very  soon  feel  it,  for  a  man  would  stay  here  but 
to  make  a  fortune,  and  go  to  a  more  refined  and  liberal  land  to 
enjoy  it.  Still,  however,  there  are  offences  of  one  class  against 
another — of  the  rich  by  the  poor  and  of  the  poor  by  the  rich — and 
as  these  occur  principally  in  public  places,  where  people  should 
meet  upon  a  common  footing  as  to  purchase  and  privilege,  the 
Managers  are  bound  to  see  that  the  arrangements  are  republican 
and  inoffensive.  "  Exclusiveness,"  unpopular  as  it  is,  is  a 
republican  right,  subject  to  nothing  but  ridicule,  when  exercised 
in  a  man's  house,  equipage  and  personal  acquaintance  ;  but  any 
privilege  given,  in  a  place  of  amusement,  to  one  man  above 
another,  for  fashionable  pre-eminence  merely  and  without  compe 
tition  of  purchase,  is  un-republican  and  wrong,  and,  with  that, 
we  think,  the  public  have  a  right  to  be  discontented. 

The  New  York  public  is  not  silly  enough,  of  course,  to  make 
war,  otherwise  than  by  expression  of  opinion,  upon  the  trifles 
against  which  so  many  paragraphs  have  been  latterly  aimed,  such 
as  "  white  gloves,"  "  liveried  servants,"  "  moustaches"  and 
"  opera-glasses" — a  citizen  having  as  much  right  to  indulge  in  any 
of  these  as  a  Puseyite  to  wear  a  straight  collar,  or  a  "  Mose"  to 
carry  his  coat  on  his  arm — but  these  are,  notwithstanding, 
intensities,  and  though  they  would  be  sufficiently  tolerated  by 
themselves,  they  aggravate  the  offensiveness  of  any  real  ground  of 
complaint  against  the  class  whose  peculiarities  they  are,  and  can 
only  be  made  innocent  by  the  removal  of  the  small  offence  which 
they  intensify.  The  nut-shell  which  contains  it  all,  at  present, 


OFFENCE    TO    BE    AVOIDED.  343 


seems  to  be  the  privileged  seats  held  for  the  Opera  season  by 
subscribers. 

It  is  our  own  opinion,  that,  though  seats  for  the  season  are 
great  conveniences — (for  easy  finding  by  acquaintances,  for 
cushioning  to  suit  invalids,  and  for  saving  of  nightly  trouble  to 
secure  places) — yet,  if  the  whole  class  of  occasional  comers  to 
the  Opera,  and  strangers  in  town,  are  thereby  excluded  from  the 
best  seats,  and  offended,  they  should  not  be  permitted  in  the 
arrangements.  The  subscribers,  and  the  best  seats,  are  but  few. 
The  occasional  visitors  and  strangers  are  many.  We  will  not 
stop  to  show  how  this  is  good  policy ,  for  the  success  of  the  Opera, 
but  we  will  add  that  we  think  it  also  a  proper  concession  of 
feeling.  In  a  republic  there  must  be  mutual  yielding •,  as  far  as 
possible,  to  the  prejudices  of  classes  ;  and  editors  and  managers, 
with  this  principle  in  their  minds,  may  suggest  and  arrange 
remedies  for  all  present  likelihoods  of  discord.  With  a  charming 
example  of  this  spirit,  in  our  heroic  and  common-sense  President 
himself,  we  close  these  hasty  comments  on  a  matter  which  we 
should  have  liked  the  opportunity  to  discuss  more  at  our  leisure. 


SUGGESTIONS   OF   MAY-DAY   IN    NEW   YORK, 

WE  have  had  many  a  Maying  frolic  in  the  country,  where,  with 
half  a  score  of  bright-faced  laughing  girls,  we  have  "  prevented 
the  dawning  of  the  morning,"  and  brushed  the  dew  from  acres  of 
flowering  meadows,  to  gather  the  fresh-peeping  violets,  and 
"  make  roses  grow  in  our  cheeks."  Blessed  days  !  we  would  not 
cease  to  remember  them,  for  an  untouched  section  of  California — 
for  there  is  a  gleam  of  sunshine  in  every  such  remembrance, 
which  has  power  to  chase  away  the  shadows  of  years,  and  make 
us  quite  a  child  again.  But — May-day  in  New  York — was  ever 
a  contrast  so  irreconcilable  ?  Who  would  not  cry  with  Job — 
"  let  it  not  come  into  the  number  of  the  months  ?"  It  is  a  day 
which  concentrates,  in  its  single  brief  cycle,  the  dust,  the  labour, 
the  burdens,  the  miseries,  the  disappointments,  the  vexations  of 
two  years — the  remembered  evils  of  the  past,  and  the  anticipated 
troubles  of  the  coming.  As  if  "  quarter  day,"  and  the  hard  face 
of  a  querulous  landlord  were  not  enough  to  season  one  day's  trial, 
it  is  four  quarter-days  in  one,  and  moving — washing — scrubbing — 
scouring — house-cleaning-and-putting-to-rights-day,  to  boot.  On 
that  single  day,  half  the  houses  in  New  York  are  turned  up-side- 
down  and  inside  out,  and  emptied,  with  all  their  living  and  move- 
able  contents  into  the  other  half,  which,  at  the  same  time,  are 


MAKING    ACQUAINTANCES.  345 


undergoing  the  same  ejective  operation,  and  pouring  themselves 
into  the  first  half.  It  is  the  harvest-day  of  carmen,  who,  for  that 
day,  are  released  from  all  deference  to  the  established  tariff  of 
fees,  and  charge  every  man  what  is  right  in  his  own  eyes.  It  is 
the  annual  dooms-day  of  all  domestic  husbands,  and  quiet, 
orderly  old  bachelors,  who  dread  its  coming  worse  than  the 
plague,  or  the  cholera,  and  who,  for  the  month  before,  and  the 
month  following,  are  haunted  with  the  nightmare  of  change  and 
disorder,  and  can  scarcely  tell  whether  they  have  a  home  or  not. 
To  the  ladies — but  we  forbear — patient  souls  !  they  never 
complain  of  a  bustle,  and  we  have  no  means  of  guessing  "  how  it 
seems"  to  them.  What  demon  could  have  possessed  good  old 
Santa  Glaus  to  allow  such  a  day  to  come  into  the  Dutchman's 
calendar.  The  landlords  must  have  given  him  chloroform,  or  the 
good-natured  saint  would  have  vetoed  it,  with  a  huge  oath  for 
emphasis. 

It  was  recently  given  in  evidence  of  insanity,  in  Paris,  that  a 
man  had  hired  a  lot  of  ground,  and,  placing  upon  it  an  omnibus 
without  wheels,  lived  in  the  vehicle,  to  his  entire  satisfaction. 
We  should  strongly  impugn  the  evidence.  An  Indian,  accus 
tomed  to  a  wigwam,  would  find  any  abode  reasonably  sufficient 
which  would  accommodate  "  twelve  inside,"  and  children  at 
discretion,  and  which  had  a  door,  eleven  windows,  a  hole  at  the 
top  and  comfortable  cushions.  The  pre-pos-te-rous  number  of 
things  which  people  collect  together  as  necessaries  of  life,  would, 
to  a  savage,  be  inexplicable. 

But  the   chief  calamity  of  a  May-moving,  we  think,  is  the 

painful  suspension  of  belief  in  the  value  of  property — the  most 

sacred  furniture  being  so  demeaned  and   profaned  by  confused 

displacement  and  vile  proximity,  that  it  seems  impossible  we  can 

15* 


346  IMPORTED    SUPERFLUITIES. 


ever  regain  our  respect  for  it.  It  is  like  cutting  off  a  man's  nose 
and  laying  it  on  the  floor  ;  or  drawing  a  tooth  and  packing  it  in  a 
basket.  The  articles  have  anything  but  the  same  value  as 
previously. 

Ladies  having  a  greater  facility  of  re-producing  displaced 
associations,  and  it  being  desirable  that  gentlemen  should  retain  B 
reverence  for  their  household  gods,  we  venture  to  query  : — 
whether  it  would  not  be  an  advisable  custom  for  the  wife  to 
superintend  the  moving  in  toto,  sending  the,  husband  to  a  hotel, 
with  order  of.  absence  from  May  1st  till  farther  advices.  Is  not 
this  foreshadowingly  hinted  at,  in  the  words  of  an  old  English 
writer,  who,  (making  no  mention  of  woman,)  in  his  account  of 
the  festivities  of  May  morning,  says,  "  Every  mem,  except 
impediment,  would  walk  into  the  meadows  on  May  day  ?"  As  it 
is,  one  sighs  for  some  place  like  Psalmanazar's  island  of  Formosa 
to  retreat  to  : — 

"  Oh  for  some  fair  Formosa,  such  as  he, 
The  young  Jew  fabled  of.  i>  the  Indian  sea, 
By  nothing  but  its  name  of  beauty  known. 
And  which  poor  husbands  might  make  all  their  own  ; 
Their  May-day  kingdom — take  its  beds  and  stands, 
Et  cetera,  into  their  own  meek  hands, 
And  have,  at  least,  one  earthly  corner  quiet, 
While  ladies  move,  who  are  less  troubled  by  it." 

*********  * 

The  eruption  on  the  front  doors  tells  us  that  Spring  is  at 
hand— the  placards  of  "  To  Let,"  in  the  city,  corresponding  with 
the  outbreak  of  crocuses  in  the  country,  as  a  sign  of  the  season. 
There  is  no  more  significant  index  of  the  variableness  of  fortunes 
and  worldly  conditions,  in  this  country,  than  the  general  change 


PROGRESS    UP-TOWN.  347 


of  residence  in  May.  The  majority,  probably,  change  for  the 
better,  as  the  majority  of  citizens  are  doubtless  improving  in  their 
circumstances,  from  year  to  year — but  it  is  a  question  whether 
habits  of  restlessness,  injurious  to  the  important  feeling  of  home, 
,are  not  bred  by  these  annual  removals.  "  Put  it  o'  one  side  to 
think  of." 

There  is  a  certain  peculiarity,  too,  which  is  often  charged  upon 
New  York,  and  which  may  possibly  have  grown  out  of  this 
custom.  How  many  families  are  there,  who  have  "  kept  moving," 
till  they  are  in  houses  beyond  their  means,  and  unsuitable  to  their 
style  of  living  ?  The  last  house  which  they  finally  reach,  seems 
to  proclaim  that  they  have  overshot  the  mark ;  for,  dwelling  there 
with  closed  doors,  they  are  literally  buried,  with  four- story 
monuments  over  their  heads — "  lost  to  the  friends  from  whose 
fond  side  they  have  been  taken,"  and  occupying,  of  course,  only 
the  basement,  where  they  are.  Up-town  is  sprinkled  thick  with 
these  four-story  sepulchres.  How  much  of  that  part  of  the  city, 
indeed,  might  be  planted  with  cypresses,  and  laid  out  as  the 
cemetery  of  victims  of  premature  removal,  we  leave  open  to 
conjecture. 

The  number  of  degrees  of  rent  and  house -dignity,  in  New 
York,  and  the  corresponding  means  of  those  who  adopt  them, 
would  be  interesting  to  know.  From  board  at  three  dollars  a 
week  to  a  rent  of  three  thousand  dollars  a  year,  is  not  an 
uncommon  transition  during  the  education  of  a  daughter — (a 
"  sliding  scale"  that  has  its  effects!)  It  is  a  topic  for  Hunt's 
Statistical  Magazine— the  PROGRESS  UP-TOWN,  with  the  different 
stopping  places  and  gradations.  From  the  close  packed  rookeries 
of  Greenwich-street  to  the  scaffolding  wilderness  above  Union 
Square from  Over-run-dom  to  Semi-done-dom. — there  are,  at 


348  VISITS    BY    DRESS. 


least,  twenty  degrees  of  rent  and  gentility  of  location.  "  Friend, 
go  up  higher,"  seems  to  be  the  text  that  contains  the  moving 
principle  of  New  York — but  the  Rev.  Mr.  Beecher,  who  knows 
how  to  hitch  worldly  wisdom  into  gospel  harness,  might  preach  a 
valuable  sermon  on  the  danger  of  too  hasty  obedience  to  this 
Scripture  injunction. 

***#**#*=?:*: 

A  very  charming  woman,  whose  toilette  had  been  exceedingly 
admired  at  a  late  fashionable  party,  but  to  whom  no  conversation 
had  been  addressed  during  the  evening,  declared  to  us,  while 
waiting  for  her  carriage,  that  she  should  acccept  invitations 
hereafter  by  sending  her  dress  and  jewels — allowing  her  superflu 
ous  remainder  to  go  to  bed  with  a  book.  The  appropriateness  of 
this  economy  in  New  York  fashionable  society,  seemed  to  us 
worthy  of  mention  in  print,  and  it  belongs,  in  fact,  to  the  spirit  of 
anti-needlessness  and  sensible  substitution,  which  is  the  manifest 
taste  and  tendency  of  the  times.  The  strongest  argument  for  a 
family  carriage,  in  England,  is  the  power  it  gives  of  attending  a 
friend's  funeral  by  equipage— the  liveried  vehicle,  with  blinds 
drawn,  expressing  quite  as  poignant  grief  without  the  owner  inside, 
and  with  a  great  economy  of  time  and  tedium.  The  poor  author's 
reply  to  his  rich  host,  who  pressed  the  costly  meats  upon  him 
after  his  appetite  was  satisfied  :— "  No,  thank  you,  I'll  take  the 
rest  in  money,  if  you  please  !"  was  in  thetsame  sensible  spirit  of 
substitution. 

To  button  wants  upon  superfluities,  seems  to  us,  in  fact,  the 
thing  for  which  the  age  is  most  ready.  We  have,  for  some  time, 
thought  of  making  a  suggestion  of  this  kind,  and  we  do  it  more 
confidently,  now  that  the  "  money  crisis"  makes  it  likelier  to  prove 
acceptable. 


I 

VACANT  PART  OF  NEW  YORK.        349 


Unlike  any  other  city  in  the  world,  New  York  is  a  crowded 
metropolis,  with  an  uninhabited  Persepolis  in  its  midst — a  void 
within  a  plethora— an  overstocked  ground-level,  with  a  vacant 
city  built  over  it,  at  from  forty  to  fifty  feet  elevation.  There  are 
hundreds  of  streets  of  unoccupied  third  and  fourth  stories — levels 
which,  in  France  or  England,  would  be  populously  inhabited. 
There  are  long  blocks  of  houses,  in  every  part  of  up-town,  through 
which  run  uninterrupted  lines  of  floors  unoccupied.  Thus  much 
for  the  superfluity. 

Now,  the  crying  want  of  New  York  is  for  elegant  private 
lodgings.     The  increasing  number  of  persons  who  have  homes  in 
the  country,  and  who  wish  to  pass  the  winter  months  in  the  city, 
but  who  dislike  to  subject  their  families  to  the  publicity  of  hotels, 
makes  this  a  matter  worth  calling  present  attention  to.     Furnished 
apartments,  that  can  be  hired  at  a  moderate  annual  rent,  adapted 
for  convenience  and  comfort  only,  and  to  which  meals  can  be  sent 
from  a  restaurant  or  from  a  neighbouring  establishment  main 
tained  for  the  purpose — apartments  where  no  show  is  expected, 
and   which    entail   no    care — are    more   needed  than   any  other 
accommodation  in  this  city.     The  first    step   has  already  been 
taken,  for  the  supply  of  this  convenience  so  common  in  every 
foreign  city,  and  we  were  informed,  last  week,  that  the  profits  of 
one  enterprising  and  well-managing  person,  who  has  taken  several 
houses,  in  the  neighbourhood-  of  a  restaurant,  and  let  them  out  in 
this  way  to  some  of  our  wealthiest  country-house  owners,  amountr 
ed  last  year  to  ten  thousand  dollars. 

But,  the  idea,  for  which  we  desire  that  the  Court  of  Common 
Sense  should  grant  us  a  copyright,  is  not  yet  expressed.  We 
have  shown  the  superfluity  and  the  want — but  there  is  an  obstacle 
to  the  union  of  the  two.  The  pride  of  the  dwellers  in  tall  houses 


350  PLAft    FOR    LODGINGS. 


requires,  that  they  should  have  the  front  door  to  themselves — 
also  the  door-plate  and  bell-handle — also  freedom  from  other 
people's  ash -barrel  on  the  sidewalk  edge — also  the  right  of  entry 
and  staircase,  privacy  of  basement  and  exclusive  control  of  gas, 
Croton,  and  night-key.  These,  (with  fashionable  neighbourhood,) 
constitute  the  actual  and  tangible  advantages  of  a  "  house  up 
town."  And  we  propose  to  continue  these,  one  and  all,  to  the 
present  enjoyers  of  them — proposing  only  a  better  use  of  their 
superfluous  upper-stories,  thus  : — 

Of  every  five  houses  in  a  block,  let  the  central  one  be  taken  by 
a  landlady  of  lodgings.  The  main  floor  and  basement  might  be 
occupied  as  a  restaurant  and  cook-shop.  The  other  rooms  she 
would  let  to  those  who  should  agree  with  her  for  an  annual  rent, 
paying  also  for  regular  service,  and  for  the  meals  she  should 
furnish.  Of  her  neighbours  on  either  side,  she  should  hire  the 
upper  stories,  opening  an  access  to  them  from  the  central  house,  and 
sealing  up  the  staircases*,  so  as  to  cut  off  all  communication  with 
the  families  below.  In  this  way,  an  entry,  run  through  the 
entire  block,  would  be  like  the  long  wing  of  a  hotel ;  and  this 
appropriation  of  it,  known  only  to  the  occupants,  would  be  no 
manner  of  inconvenience  to  the  private  residences  whose  doors 
and  staircases  were  left  undisturbed.  For  "  settling"  the 
uninhabited  third  and  fourth  stories  of  New  York  City — for 
colonizing  and  turning  to  account  the  waste  prairies  over  our 
heads — we  respectfully  and  gratuitously  submit  this  plan  to  the 
Public. 


ARE   OPERAS    MORAL,   AID   ARE   PRIMA-DOfflAS 
LADIES? 

"  THE  ox  is  liable  to  death  from  swallowing  the  hairs  licked 
from  his  own  body,"  says  Natural  History,  but  there  was  probably 
a  time,  during  ox-worship  in  Egypt  (supposing  human  nature  to 
have  been  always  the  same),  when,  to  have  removed  such 
superfluous  hairs  with  a  curry-comb,  would  have  been  called 
profane.  In  this  similitude  is  fairly  presented,  we  believe,  the 
spirit  in  which  any  attempts  to  liberalize  moral  restrictions  are 
usually  received  in  our  country.  Yet  a  superfluous  and  irritating 
excess  of  restriction,  is,  we  think,  the  evil  from  which  the  whole 
system  of  morals  is  most  in  danger. 

We  have  once  or  twice,  lately,  been  led  to  ask  why  the  Opera 
is  not  a  suitable  amusement  for  the  religious  and  moral,  and 
what  would  be  the  consequences  of  putting  Opera-music  and  its 
professors  upon  the  same  footing  as  Art  and  artists. 

The  wife  of  an  eminent  clergyman  expressed  to  us,  not  long 
since,  her  regret  at  being  precluded  from  the  enjoyment  of  the 
Opera,  and  we  ventured  to  inquire  whether  her  husband  had  any 
scruples  as  to  the  intrinsic  propriety  of  her  visiting  this  place  of 
amusement.  "  No  !"  she  said,  "  but  there  are  so  many  excellent 


352  OBJECTIONS    TO    OPERA. 


people  who  would  take  offence !"  We  chance  to  have,  in  our 
own  acquaintance,  a  considerable  number  of  these  same  "  excellent 
people  ;"  and  among  them,  we  know  of  no  one,  who  has  an  ear 
for  music  and  any  remainder  of  youth,  who  would  not  frequent 
the  Opera  if  "  Sister  So-and-so"  would  not  be  likely  to  "  feel 
hurt  about  it" — Sister  So-and-so  (on  inquiry)  having  either  a 
rheumatism  which  prevents  her  "  going  out  of  evenings,"  or  not 
taste  enough  for  music  to  turn  a  doxqlogy.  The  stories,  or 
subjects  of  Operas,  being  properly  liable  to  no  interdiction  which 
would  not  apply  equally  to  the  reading  of  history  and  to  the 
admission  of  general  literature  into  a  family,  the  classing  of  so 
attractive  and  refined  an  amusement  among  immoralities,  looks,  to 
the  young,  like  an  unsupported  and  bigoted  prejudice.  A  need 
less  deprivation  like  this,  too,  stands,  as  a  drawback,  at  the  door 
of  a  profession  of  religion  ;  and  it  is  not  unlikely,  besides,  to 
awaken  a  mischievous  incredulity  as  to  the  soundness  of  forbid- 
dings,  wiser  and  better,  which  are  enforced,  with  no  more 
emphasis,  in  its  company. 

We  were  a  looker-on  at  a  morning  concert,  a  week  or  two  ago, 
given  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Bajioli,  the  well-known  music-teacher 
of  this  city.  It  was  intended  partly  as  an  exhibition  of  his 
present  pupils ;  but,  among  the  performers,  were  several  ladies 
distinguished  for  their  musical  accomplishment,  who  had  formerly 
benefitted  by  his  instructions,  and  one  or  two  professional  singers 
— Signorina  Truffi  among  the  number.  The  ladies  present,  the 
relatives  and  friends  of  the  scholars,  were  as  select  a  company, 
for  propriety  and  fashion,  as  could  well  have  been  assembled  ; 
but  the  unusual  presence  of  the  prima-donua,  in  drawing-room 
dress,  amid  this  exclusive  crowd  of  private  society,  naturally 
suggested  comparison  and  speculation.  A  woman  of  a  more 


CIVILITIES    TO    SINGERS.  353 


aristocratic  air  than  this  young  and  beautiful  creature  could 
hardly  be  found.  She  is  handsomer  off  the  stage  than  on  it,  for 
the  fresh  and  maidenly  character  of  her  countenance  is  confused 
by  distance  and  by  the  tinsel  of  stage  costume.  Her  face,  seen 
near  and  by  daylight,  has  the  unprofaned  and  unconscious  purity 
of  private  life,  while  her  refined  carriage  of  person  and  self- 
possessed  grace  of  manners  strikingly  fit  her  to  be  the  ornament 
of  society  the  most  discriminate.  She  sat  listening  while  one  of 
Mr.  Bajioli's  pupils  sang  an  air  from  an  Opera  in  which  she 
frequently  appears  upon  the  stage,  and  the  simple  and  uncon 
scious  interest  with  which  she  watched  the  less  perfect  perform 
ance  of  what  she  could  do  so  well — the  eager  movements  of  her 
lips  as  she  followed  the  words,  and  the  sympathetic  heave  of  her 
chest  and  stir  of  her  arms,  as  if  for  a  gesture,  at  the  points  which 
required  force  and  exertion — betrayed  a  childlike  and  tender 
sympathy,  which  we  could  not  but  look  upon,  in  this  queenly 
woman,  with  respect  and  admiration. 

"Why,  we  asked,  would  not  any  society  be  improved,  by  taking 
up,  as  persons  to  cherish  and  make  much  of,  the  gifted  and 
accomplished  creatures  whose  natural  superiority  marks  them  out 
for  this  profession  ?  They  are  not  all  of  good  character,  it  is 
said — but,  because  all  painters  are  not  of  good  character,  are 
painters,  therefore,  as  a  class,  excluded  from  society  ?  To  invite 
an  Opera-singer  to  a  party  in  New  York,  except  as  a  person  hired 
to  perform  for  the  amusement  of  those  present,  would  be  consid 
ered  by  most  people  as  rather  a  venturesome  risking  of  the  censure 
of  "mixed  company."  Complimentary  civilities  to  a  prima- 
donna,  in  the  presence  of  other  ladies,  would  so  lessen  the  value 
of  a  gentleman's  attentions,  that  his  female  acquaintances  would 
be  shy  of  him,  till  there  was  time  for  it  to  be  forgotten.  A 


354  APPRECIATION    OF    ARTISTS. 


woman  like  Signorina  Truffi,  known,  to  be  a  most  exemplary 
daughter  and  perfectly  irreproachable  in  character,  comes  to 
New  York — as  gifted  and  distinguished  in  her  way  as  Frederika 
Bremer  would  be,  in  hers — yet  receives  no  attentions  from  her  own 
sex  and  no  hospitalities,  except  as  condescensions,  while  Miss 
Bremer,  should  she  come  to  sell  her  books  as  Truffi  comes  to  sell 
her  music,  would  be  thronged  after  like  a  queen. 

They  are  more  liberal  in  England  and  France  toward  musical 
artists,  but  we  want  something  far  better  than  the  English  or 
French  feeling  on  the  subject — we  want  a  republican  appreciation 
of  musical  genius — an  equitable  and  just  moral  appreciation — a 
liberal  and  educated  distribution  of  the  honour  and  favour  of  society, 
to  the  gifted  of  all  professions  alike.  It  is  something,  in  Europe, 
that  every  admirable  artist  gathers  a  party  of  appreciators  about 
her,  who  combine  to  support  and  defend  her  against  adverse 
circumstances  or  professional  intrigue  and  rivalry  ;  and  it  makes 
America  a  cold  and  unsympathetic  latitude  to  artists,  because  we 
have  no  such  generous  impulse  of  combination  here ;  but  there  is, 
with  it,  in  Europe,  an  undisguised  condescension  of  patronage,  to 
which  genius,  of  any  kind,  should  scorn  to  be  subjected.  This  is, 
properly,  the  country  for  something  better — for  getting  rid  of  the 
artificial  and  oppressive  usages  based  on  what  the  Pilgrims  came 
over  here  to  be  rid  of — and,  instead  of  being  outdone,  as  it  is,  by 
monarchical  liberality  to  gifted  persons,  it  should  have  been,  long 
ago,  an  example  of  what  reform  a  republic  works  in  tJie  place-giving 
appreciation  of  genius. 

"We  leave  untouched  the  obvious  changes  that  would  be  worked 
in  Opera-Music  and  its  professors,  if  Music  were  fairly  adopted, 
in  all  its  beautiful  varieties,  as  a  moral  art.  We  think  the  tima 
will  very  soon  come,  when  the  Opera  will  be  separated  from  other 


SEPARATION    OF    OPERA.  355 


dramatic  amusements,  and  adopted  even  by  the  religious  who 
continue  to  condemn  theatres.  But  we  will  leave  this  bearing  of 
the  subject  to  our  reader's  own  reflections,  or  perhaps  resume  it 
in  another  article. 


EVENING  ACCESS  TO  NEW  YORK  INFORMATION  AND 
AMUSEMENT, 

Cream  Market  of  Mind— Whipple's  Lecture — Astor  Place  Triangle— Palais 
Royal  in  New  York — Concentration  of  Evening  Resort  to  one  Neighbour 
hood — Convenience  to  different  Members  of  a  Family  having  different 
Tastes  or  Errands — Economy  of  Social  Evenings — Balls,  Lectures,  Picture 
Galleries — Opera,  Theatre,  and  Supper  Rooms  under  one  Roof,  etc.,  etc. 

THERE  is  a  cream-market  in  New  York,  to  which  "  institu 
tion,"  we  feel,  the  Lectures  of  the  Mercantile  Library  figuratively 
correspond.  What  superior  minds  give  us  in  newspapers,  reviews, 
conversation,  and  even  in  books,  is,  comparatively,  milk.  When 
they  prepare  to  appear,  in  person,  and  furnish  an  hour's  measure 
of  thought-luxury  to  the  minds  of  intellectual  men,  they  give  us 
cream.  It  is  not  from  a  morning's  grazing  upon  chance-growing 
meditation,  that  a  milch-thinker  like  Emerson,  for  instance,  can 
give  us  what  we  receive  in  a  Lecture.  It  is  the  crearn^  of  the 
nourishment  of  many  mornings — of  many  a  "  chewing  of  the  cud 
of  sweet  and  bitter  fancy"— delivered,  first,  no  doubt,  in  the  milk 
of  unseparated  thoughts,  but  raised  afterwards,  by  stillness  and 
contemplation,  to  the  level  from  which  it  may  be  taken  by  the 
skimmer  of  a  popular  theme,  and  presented  in  a  Lecture. 


PROPOSAL    FOR   A    "PALAIS-ROYAL."  357 


We  see  a  necessity  of  the  present  time — that  of  "  relieving  the 
Broadway"  of  the  eye,  and  running  some  of  the  "  omnibus  lines" 
of  knowledge  in  at  the  ear.  A  man  reads,  very  often,  as  a  fowl 
eats  hard  corn — his  u  crop"  (of  general  information)  betraying 
,  afterwards  that  he  has  had  no  idea  of  taking  toll.  But  he  usually 
hears  with  digestion — possibly  from  other  people's  hearing  with 
him,  and  the  probability  that  he  may  be  called  upon  to  discuss 
the  subject-matter.  There  are,  in  fact,  few  ways  of  using  an 
hour,  by  which  a  man  acquires  more  knowledge,  and  more  sug 
gestive  momentum,  than  by  a  Lecture. 

We  missed  Whip^le's  Lecture  at  the  Mercantile  Library,  the 
other  evening,  by  its  being  two  miles  off,  and  a  friend's  call  "  cut 
ting  off  the  selvedge"  of  the  dinner  hour,  on  which  we  had  relied 
to  get  there.  Now,  is  there  any  man's  time,  in  New  York, 
worth  as  much,  from  seven  to  eight  o'clock,  as  the  knowledge  and 
suggestion  he  would  get  from  a  lecture  by  such  a  man  as  Whipple  ? 
Whoever  was  not  there,  we  are  inclined  to  think,  spent  the  hour 
without  getting  all  he  might  have  got  out  of  it,  and  this  loss,  of 
our  own  and  some  other  people's,  suggested  an  idea  to  us,  to  the 
expression  of  which  we  hope  presently  to  arrive. 

The  most  central  and  easiest  place  of  access,  in  this  city,  for 
evening  resort,  is  The  Triangle  of  which  one  corner  is  occupied 
by  the  Astor-Place  Opera-house.  The  railroad  passing  it  on  the 
east,  and  almost  every  omnibus  line  in  the  city  touching  it  one 
side  or  the  other,  it  is  as  accessible  by  these  cheap  conveyances 
as  by  private  carriages,  and  in  all  weathers  and  from  all  quarters. 
It  is  the  waist  of  the  hour-glass  of  New  York,  through  which 
pass  all  the  grains  of  it's  sands  of  locomotion.  We  do  not  know 
who  owns  the  fifteen  or  twenty  "  lots"  that  compose  it,  but,  with 
its  advantages  for  being  turned  into  a  little  "  Palais  Royal,"  we 


358  COMBINATION    OF    AMUSEMENTS. 


wonder  speculation  has  not  long  ago  turned  it  to  account.  There 
is  space  enough  in  this  triangle  for  both  an  Opera  and  a  Theatre 
for  two  or  three  lecture  rooms  and  picture  galleries,  a  restau 
rant  and  a  ball  room  ;  and,  if  the  sidewalk  enclosing  the  whole 
were  covered  with  a  roof  awning,  so  that  persons  might  go  from 
one  part  to  another  without  exposure,  the,  audience  would  be  trans 
ferred  and  combined  continually.  A  Lecture  from  half-past  six  to 
half-past  seven,  for  instance — Opera  next  door,  from  half-past 
seven  till  ten — Assembly,  Ball  or  Supper  party,  next  door  again, 
from  ten  onwards,  with  a  "  look  in"  at  the  theatre  or  a  picture 
gallery  under  the  same  roof — would  form  a  disposal  of  an  evening 
which  would  at  least  be  a  very  great  accommodation  to  strangers, 
and,  to  our  thinking,  would  give  a  much  more  civilized  facility  of 
amusement  to  the  resident  inhabitants. 

Let  us  look  at  the  convenience  and  economy  of  the  matter  a 
little  more  closely.  We  need  not  consider  those  who  keep  private 
carriages,  for  they  are  few,  and,  besides,  having  had  their  horses 
out  all  day,  and  wishing  to  spare  them  and  their  coachman  the 
cold  work,  they  oftenest  hire  a  hack  carriage  for  the  evening. 
Taking  a  lady  to  the  Opera,  then,  is  a  business  of  five  dollars- 
three  for  the  tickets  and  two  for  the  carriage.  With  increase  of 
the  crowd  at  one  point,  however,  the  omnibusses  would  accom 
modate  themselves  to  the  throng,  and  it  would  be  the  universal 
habit  to  make  use  of  them — saving  nearly  two  dollars,  which 
would  enable  the  gentleman  to  leave  his  lady  at  the  Opera,  and 
look  in  at  the  Play,  or  hear  a  Lecture,  or  dance  an  hour  at  a 
Ball,  or  visit  one  or  two  Exhibitions,  or  sup  or  lounge — varying 
the  entertainment  of  the  evening  without  increasing  the  expense, 
and,  of  course,  combining  oftener  a  gentleman's  own  engagements 
•with  those  of  his  lady.  Other  variations  of  economy  and  con- 


LECTURES   UP-TOWN.  359 


venience,  in  such  a  concentration,  will  readily  suggest  themselves 
to  the  reader. 

To  return  to  the  "  cream"  of  mind,  given*us  in  Lectures  by 
such  men  as  Emerson,  Whipple,  Giles,  Dana,  and  others — it  is 
a  great  way  to  go  for  it,  where  it  is  usually  given,  at  Clinton 
Hall ;  and,  though  it  occupies  but  an  hour  in  the  early  part  of 
the  evening,  the  distance  makes  it  a  supercedence  of  every  other 
engagement.  But,  still,  the  Lectures  of  the  Mercantile  Library 
form  a  course  which  it  is  a  pity  for  an  intelligent  "  keeper-up 
with  the  times"  to  miss ;  and,  whether  our  idea  of  "  The  Tri 
angle"  is  thought  practicable  or  no,  we  hope  there  may  be  either 
a  repetition  of  these  high-class  lectures  up-town,  or  a  transfer  of 
the  lecturing  place  of  this  excellent  body  of  our  citizens,  to  some 
more  convenient  neighbourhood.  Clinton  Hall,  besides,  is  too 
small,  miserably  lighted  and  ill  furnished. 

We  have  not  mentioned  what  would,  after  all,  perhaps,  be  the 
greatest  luxury  of  a  concentration  of  evening  resort  to  one  neigh 
bourhood — the  chance,  to  meet  every  lody  on  common  ground,  without 
the  trouble  of  a  visit,  and  the  consequent  easy  exchange  of  ideas, 
information,  civilities,  verbal  engagements,  acquaintance  and 
observation.  The  Triangle  would  be  a  "  dress  place"  or  not,  as 
public  opinion  should  ordain — but  that  it  would  fraternize  and 
socialize,  cosmopolize  and  gay-ify  the  town,  we  think  there  can  be 
little  doubt — besides  saving  money  and  time,  giving  better  support 
to  Theatre  and  Opera,  opening  communication  between  Lecture- 
minds  and  the  public,  and  (if  it  were  done  architecturally),  very 
much  embellishing  a  conspicuous  part  of  the  city. 


FAIR  PLAY  TO  "THE  SPIRITS,'' 

ONE  should  be  the  Apostle  of  some  kindly  minority  or  other, 
in  this  day  of  tyrannical  majorities.  By  listening  humbly,  with 
that  spirit-ear  to  which  come  the  faint  whispers  of  duty,  one  may 
receive  instructions  of  tolerable  distinctness,  we  believe,  as  to  the 
"  cross"  to  be  taken  up,  smaller  or  larger.  "We  have  had  our 
"call" — we  own 'it — long  ago — and  have  moderately  done  its 
bidding,  keeping  our  unsatisfied  ear  still  open,  however,  in  the 
hope  of  something  more  ambitious.  Time  flies,  however,  and 
death  may  overtake  us,  alas  !  amid  agreement  with  the  many ! 
Let  us  shake  off  the  dust  of  unanimity  from  our  feet,  while  we 
may,  and  preach  our  poor  little  difference  from  this  age  of  scoffing 
and  disbelieving.  CREDULITY  is  our  gospel.  Instead  of  begin 
ning  by  doubting,  we  shall  (as  heretofore)  begin  ly  believing  in 
all  things  which  it  were  better  were  true — thus  differing  from  the 
world  about  us.  We  shall  believe  the  accused  innocent  till  they 
are  proved  guilty — thus  differing  from  the  world  about  us.  We 
shall  believe  the  sunset  of  death  is  not  without  a  lingering  twilight 
of  communication  with  the  scenes  it  leaves  behind — thus  differing 
from  the  world  about  us.  We  shall  oppose  injustices  to  new 
Messiahs  of  opinion,  and  hear  them  with  respect  and  deference — 


REASONABLY  CREDULOUS.          361 


thus  differing  from  the  world  about  us.  We  shall  listen  to  the 
praise  of  a  brick,  without  abusing  it  for  not  being  a  diamond — 
thus  differing  from  the  world  about  us. 

The  omniscience  that  is  expected  of  our  returning  friends, 
"  The  Spirits,"  seems  to  us,  among  other  things,  to  look  a  little 
like  unbelief  carried  to  persecution.  We  see  no  reasonable 
ground  for  supposing  that  John  Smith,  in  one  week  after  his 
death,  is  made  acquainted  with  every  thing,  past,  present  and 
future — made  able  to  go  to  Europe  or  Asia,  for  instance,  between 
question  and  answer,  and  bring  obituary  data  of  the  questioner's 
departed  friends — yet  this  is  exacted.  He  is  called  off  from  his 
new  occupations,  catechised,  and  criticised ;  and  his  answering  at 
all  is  pronounced  a  humbug,  if  he  fail  to  tell  what  nothing  but 
omniscience  would  be  sure  of  answering  correctly. 

And  there  is  another  thing  which  seems  to  us  an  injustice  to 
this  same  ex- John-Smith.  There  is  a  natural  tendency  in  the 
common  mind  to  assist  an  oracle.  No  great  truth  was  ever  born 
into  the  world  that  did  not  start  with  the  discredit  of  a  Nazareth, 
and  uneducated  people  are  invariably  the  first  to  receive  a  revela 
tion.  But  these  ignorant  first  believers  are  not  thereby  rendered 
superhuman.  They  are  still  subject  to  their  weaknesses  as  before 
—still  susceptible  of  bias  and  untruth.  In  the  first  place,  they 
may  misunderstand  poor  John  Smith,  who  has  to  speak  to  them 
through  a  newly  discovered  and  imperfect  alphabet,  and,  in  the 
next  place,  they  are  nervously  anxious  to  make  him  appear  wiser 
than  he  is,  while  their  vanity  is  interested  to  show  themselves  to 
equal  advantage.  John  Smith's  ghost  may  thus  be  greatly 
assisted  and  misrepresented,  and  the  general  credit  of  ghosts  may 
be  tested  and  condemned  for  what  they  never  had  the  least  idea 

of  doing  or  saying. 

16 


362  DEATH'S    TO-MORROW. 


One  other  risk  cf  injustice — in  case  Spirits  have  memories  and 
still  yearn  to  communicate  with  those  they  have  passed  a  life  in 
loving.  It  would,  of  course,  be  only  communications  of  negative 
character  and  trilling  importance  that  could  be  made  public. 
The  questions  likely  to  be  asked  of  the  dead  are  upon  subjects  too 
sacred  for  newspaper  mention.  The  most  earnest  seekers  for 
spirit-converse  would  be  those  whose  delicate  and  sensitive  natures 
shrink  most  ;i;om  ne  ridiculing  cross-questioning  of  the  scoffer. 
We  are  likely,  for  this  reason,  to  have  the  best  proof  of  spirit- 
revisitings  carefully  shut  from  us ;  and  we  may  protest,  in  common 
fairness,  we  think,  therefore,  against  any  conclusive  argument 
based  upon  th-3  dialogues  that  are  published.  The  firmest 
believers  whom  we  know,  in  this  trans-Sty xian  telegraph,  are 
highly  intellectual  persons,  who  have  no  desire  to  convert  the 
incredulous,  and  who  would  sooner  publish  their  private  letters 
to  the  living  than  what  they  believe  to  be  their  hallowed  converse 
with  the  dead. 

It  is  due  to  this,  as  to  any  important  new  theory,  that  the 
indirect  probabilities  of  its  being  true  should  be  taken  into  the 
question.  With  knowledge  miraculously  enlarging  in  every  other 
direction,  it  seems  natural  that  we  should  make  at  least  some 
measurable  progress  in  comprehending  the  spirit's  first  step  into 
the  next  existence.  It  is  not  reasonable  to  suppose  that  death  is 
always  to  be  .1  terror  ;  and  it  would  not  be  at  all  out  of  measure, 
with  other  Providential  ameliorations  of  human  life,  if  we  were 
yet  to  look  forward  to  a  dearly  understood  to-morrow  beyond  the 
grave ,  as  we  do  now  to  a  morning  beyond  a  night  of  weariness — 
laying  off  our  bodies,  without  fear,  as  we  lay  off  our  garments  to 
go  to  sleep.  Such  a  softening  of  our  lot  would  not  come  about  in 
a  day,  nor  by  a  miracle,  but  would  easily  arrive  by  a  gradual 


UN-IMAGINATIVE    AGE.  363 


letting  of  light  into  the  first  dread  darkness  of  eternity,  and  by 
enabling  us  to  speak,  from  this  side  the  brink,  to  those  who  are 
beyond. 

There  would  almost  seem  to  be  divine  purpose  enough,  in 
giving  us  this  glimmering  look  into  the  spirit-world,  if  it  were 
only  to  awaken  a  little  the  imagination,  that  seems  under  paralysis  in 
the  age  we  live  in.  The  Bible  is  all  true,  but  it  is  all  poetry, 
too  ;  and  our  Saviour's  medium  for  what  he  came  to  teach  was 
the  language  of  that  very  imagination  which,  in  the  present  day, 
throws  discredit  over  any  new  matter  that  it  is  employed  to 
illustrate.  To  give  us  something  startling,  and  yet  vague,  to 
believe,  is  likely  to  awaken  us,  if  anything  could,  from  the 
unhealthy  torpor  of  unbelief,  in  which  the  blood  for  the  highest 
activities  of  the  soul  lies  stagnant. 

But,  of  the  indirect  evidences  in  favour  of  the  reality  of  this 
new  spirit  intercourse,  none  seems  to  us  stronger  than  its  mode 
rate  beginnings  and  its  apparent  incapability  of  being  turned  to 
bad  uses.  Pretension  would  have  made  bolder  experiments. 
Diabolical  ingenuity  would  have  given  voice  sometimes  to  the 
passions  that  die  with  us,  and  would  have  lent  its  aid  to  cove- 
tousness,  ambition  and  revenge.  But  the  holier  and  purer 
affections  have  alone  found  a  voice.  Nothing  has  even  seemed  to 
have  the  power  of  communicating  with  us,  in  this  way,  except 
that  which  would  confirm  or  awaken  goodness.  It  favours 
nothing,  (as  God  is  quite  capable  of  arranging,)  that  belongs 
exclusively  to  this  world.  On  the  contrary,  its  tendency  is  to  set 
a  guard  over  our  secret  motives  and  actions,  and  to  make  us  feel, 
while  it  keeps  alive  the  memory  of  the  good  who  have  gone 
before,  that  they  are  still  within  communion,  and  more  with  us  in 
proportion  as  we  are  worthier.  We  repeat,  that,  if  it  is  "  all 


364  THE    "KNOCKERS." 


humbug,"  it  is  odd  that  bad  people  make  no  handle  of  it. 
This,  and  other  signs,  make  it  look,  to  us,  less  like  a  humbug 
than  what  might  reasonably  be  conjectured  by  a  religious  enthu 
siast,  to  be  an  apparent  preparation  for  the  coming  about  of  the 
millenium. 

We  have  said,  thus  far,  only  what  we  think  should  fairly  be 
allowed,  to  the  "  Spirits,"  even  by  those  who  do  not  believe ;  and 
what  we  presume  may  be  interesting,  in  the  way  of  suggestion,  to 
those  who  are  reading  or  conversing  on  the  subject.  For 
ourselves,  we  shall  enter  into  no  controversy  and  define  no 
belief — but  we  shall  endeavour  to  see  that  the  "  Knockers"  get 
fair  play,  and  we  shall  neglect  no  knowledge,  of  spirits  or  spirit- 
land,  which  patience,  experiment  and  a  liberal  credulity  can 
give  us. 


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